All the Broken Pieces
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: People are like the fragments of glass in a stained glass window designed to let the light of God shine through. Indvdually, we appear as useless, discarded throwaways, but God takes all the broken pieces of our lives and fits them together to create something beautiful, something whole-a likeness of Himself which we could never be alone. Full-length sequel to "Cat and Mouse."
1. Misgivings

**Author's Note: Hello my lovely readers! Up until now, I've only written one shots for this particular fandom, so this will be my first attempt at a full-length Les Mis story. :D Some of you may be familiar with my previous story "Cat and Mouse," which is based on the idea that the Champmathieu case never happened and in which Javert is forced to confront his misconceptions about Valjean much earlier in the story. There's a good deal of fluff involving Javert and young Cosette...so much so that by the end of it, I jokingly commented that maybe he could be her uncle in this AU. Well...some of you apparently really liked the idea and asked for a sequel...so here it is! In this story, I will attempt to retell the entire story of Les Mis under these new circumstances with the main focus being on Javert's effects on Cosette growing up and Cosette's effects on Javert's view of the law, justice, and God. Normally, I prefer to wait until I have everything written to start posting, but this time I'm going to try something different and just post as I go. Because of that, there may be a few more errors than usual and my updates will likely be highly irregular, but I'll do the best I can. I hope you guys enjoy it!**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis.**

**Chapter One: Misgivings**

Some men have likened God to a consuming fire. Javert would have argued that He was more like a cancer, spreading slowly and painfully through that most necessary and most abhorrent organ he'd thought petrified long ago. The heart was a useful thing only to those who could afford to have it broken—men who traded in love were rarely as successful in their investments as those who traded in gold, and quite frankly, Javert had no interest in the former. Emotion clouded judgment, and in a field where he often had to make split-second life-altering decisions, Javert had prided himself in never allowing anything to sway him from the path of justice. Until _that_ day….

It had been a little over a week since the incident involving the shooting of the mayor, and Javert had been agonizing over his decision ever since. Had he done the right thing by letting the former convict go? He had seen the prison brand—had proof beyond the shadow of a doubt that Monsieur Madeleine was Jean Valjean—and yet he had chosen to ignore the revelation as if it did not matter, turning a blind eye to his sin rather than delivering over to the law that which it demanded. Exactly _why_ he had done it, he could not say, for to confess what he had seen in the child's tear-filled eyes as she'd clung to him and wept frightened him more than he liked to admit. In any other situation, he would not have hesitated to return the ex-convict to Toulon, but he owed the man his life—a debt not to be taken lightly—and it had taken a child's act of mercy to make him see the folly of turning a good man over to the law. But the fact that a criminal should be considered "good" at all troubled him greatly. By the very definition of the word, a convict was someone who held no regard for the law, and therefore, no reverence for humanity or respect for authority, while the saintly Monsieur Madeleine—a man whose love for the people was surpassed only by his love for God—was himself an authoritative figure as mayor of the town—and an effective one, at that. The notion made his head spin. What did it mean that Man was capable of change? What did Valjean's conduct say about his character? More importantly, what did Javert's own actions—or rather, the lack thereof—say about _him_ as an officer of the law? As a man? The whole affair was an insipid mess of uncharted gray area in territory the inspector's moral compass had formerly mapped out as either black or white, and he was ineffably and inexcusably lost amid the blurred lines of legality and right.

Though not much of a religious man himself, Javert had always held in high regard representatives of the Church. Theirs was a different kind of legal system than his own, but the principles were generally the same—"Thou shalt not murder" and "Thou shalt not steal," whether laws of God or laws of man, were universal rules that even the most barbaric races recognized. If the belief that the true punishment for such crimes would be eternal rather than earthly motivated more people to do what was right, well, he had no objections. But his attendance at mass once or twice a year was really more for appearances than anything else; it was a social obligation, a requirement of the job. Respectable men went to church, so he attended dutifully, if not willingly, as he would have done for any other social function. But aside from the occasional half-hearted prayer, God rarely disturbed his thoughts. Now, it seemed, He was making up for lost time.

Over the past week, Javert had done a great deal of soul-searching—something he wasn't particularly comfortable with but now found irritatingly necessary. If Valjean's God had been the cause of the change that he had noticed, it stood to reason that said God must exist. And if said God was as holy and just as the priests made Him out to be, then He—the Author of the law Javert served—would undoubtedly be the inspector's ultimate superior—above the higher ranking officers, above the Prefect, above even the King of France himself! From his rather limited knowledge of the bible, Javert knew that the church advocated for the respect of government officials…but if, for instance, the laws of God and man conflicted on a point, what, then, was he to do? He could not very well disregard his superiors but neither could he disobey the Law Himself. To some extent, he had already encountered this dilemma in the problem of Jean Valjean, but as he no longer had a warrant, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make an arrest, and it would take a lot of explaining, indeed, if he were to drag off the town mayor—who was being hailed as hero for taking the bullet intended for Javert—in chains. No, Javert had quite literally burned his bridges with Valjean the moment he'd tossed the arrest warrant into the flames. That was one decision there was no going back on. Whether or not it had been a mistake remained to be seen. The guilt of knowing he had explicitly and intentionally gone against his orders was overwhelming to the point of making him almost physically ill…and yet he knew that even if he held the warrant in his hand, he could not make the arrest. Something—or rather, Some_one_—barred the way.

He dropped his head into his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes to assuage the throbbing pressure building up inside his brain. He had been staring at the same stack of paperwork for hours until he'd nearly gone cross-eyed trying to make sense of it all, but try as he might, he simply could not focus on the task at hand, his mind having wandered repeatedly to another case file he'd once thought had grown cold. And then the questions became philosophical. And then the headache became nauseating.

Javert was an honest man, if nothing else, as critical and unforgiving of himself as he was of others, and given the current situation, he was of a good mind to have himself court-martialed for his failure to uphold the law. But was it truly a crime to be disobedient to the law if one were being obedient to God? The problem with recognizing God as a moral superior for Javert was not admitting that he was imperfect or fallible—for he had always owned up to his faults and accepted the punishment without complaint—rather, it was the uncertainty that now accompanied his decisions. The God he had heard the priests speak of was just, but Valjean's God was apparently merciful. How, then, was one to know whether justice or mercy took precedence in a case? How to reconcile this? Where did one draw the line when there was no clear path to follow? Furthermore, it was the idea that his life—his fate—was not his own that troubled him. It was the idea that he was not his own man; that he, who had always been self-reliant, was incapable of saving himself; that he could never be irreproachable; that the law was not enough and that nothing he said or did would EVER be enough that sent a tremor up his spine. No. He would not believe it—_could not_ believe it. Jean Valjean was the exception, not the rule. The law had been wrong on one infinitesimal point, and one alone…. But if even the law was fallible, did that mean that there was something above the law that was, in fact, _in_fallible? Such questions were beyond his capabilities of reason, and so, for the moment, he did what all men do when they are given a question mark in the place where an indisputable period once stood—he ignored it and hoped that if he waited long enough, he would eventually forget that it was there.

He sighed, setting the stack of papers off to the side and glancing briefly at the clock. It was almost time for his evening shift to begin, and he was thankful for an excuse to put the paperwork away. Soon, he would be back in his element, back in the familiar darkness where criminals still fled from his sight and thieves and did not wear livery or halos. Perhaps the cool night air would clear his mind.


	2. The Cracked Vessel

**Chapter Two: The Cracked Vessel **

A knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts, the sharp, no-nonsense rapping of knuckles against wood drawing him out of the black cloud of despair that had settled over his heart. He glanced up at the clock again. Considering the lateness of the hour, it was probably important. There were but one or two other officers at the station, and they rarely disturbed him any more than was absolutely necessary. He sat up, straightening his posture and pausing to adjust his cravat that he might be more presentable.

"You may enter."

The door swung open to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid to late fifties. He wore a dark green tailcoat over a waistcoat of golden silk brocade with gray trousers and a small gold chain about the collar. But the most striking feature of the gentleman was his graying hair that, in some places, seemed to shine with streaks of silver.

Momentarily paralyzed by the shock of seeing the object of his distress again so soon, the inspector suddenly stood, bowing, for once, out of genuine courtesy despite his unease. It was the first time he had seen the man in person since his recovery from the accident, and he wasn't entirely ready to face the consequences of his actions.

"Monsieur le Maire! I was…not expecting you."

A voice that certainly did _not_ belong to Valjean answered. "Hello Monsieur Javert!"

The inspector glanced down, noticing for the first time the tiny head of blonde hair peeking out from behind the mayor's legs, and inexplicably felt himself relax. He nodded politely. "Mademoiselle Cosette."

The child giggled shyly, returning the gesture with an over exaggerated curtsey.

He returned his attention to the man before him. Although they had not openly discussed the implications of Javert's denial that he recognized the mayor as anyone other than the benevolent Madeleine, the former convict was not so foolish as to believe that the inspector did not know his true identity. Valjean's secret was no longer his own; moreover, if the Prefect ever got wind of the notion that Javert's suspicions had been correct and he had failed to act upon them, it was highly likely Valjean wouldn't be the only one sentenced to Toulon. At the mere thought of returning to that place on the opposite side of the bars—the side he'd been born on—Javert felt his stomach lurch. That he, Javert, should be a criminal—the thing that he abhorred the most, the thing he had always feared he would become, that society had claimed he would always be—was more than he could bear. And yet…was that not what he was? By choosing to release a man who rightfully belonged to the law, he had effectively signed his own arrest warrant, and regardless of whether or not he was caught, he would forever have to live with the shame and guilt of knowing that everyone who had told him that he could not escape his parents' fate—that a gypsy could never be an honest man—was right. He staggered under the weight of the revelation, latching on to the desk for support.

He suddenly felt violently ill….

Cosette frowned. "Are you alright, monsieur? You don't look well."

"I'm _fine_," he snapped. He took a few slow, deep breaths to disentangle the knots forming in his stomach. "What did you want?" he asked Valjean, his tone suddenly much colder than before.

It did not matter that he was the mayor. Javert had decided that he could not hate the man who had saved his life because of his former crimes…but at the moment he hated him for a different reason—for reminding him of who and _what_ he was.

The ex-convict removed his hat, a gesture that only served to further fuel Javert's anger—not at the mayor, but at himself. Ordinarily, a higher-ranking official did not humble himself so in the presence of an inferior. It was a sign of respect—one that Valjean knew Javert would correctly interpret as the mayor's way of saying that he recognized the power the inspector held over him despite their official roles and that he would not abuse his title or his second chance.

"I just wanted to stop by and personally thank you," he said. "I realize that in assisting my recovery, you went far above and beyond what your duty required of you." He was careful to word his sentences in such a way that a passing listener would have no cause to doubt that the officer's integrity was still intact. "I know that I placed you in a rather difficult predicament—though that was not my intent—but I am very grateful. If there is every anything I can do for you…."

Javert straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and turning away from the mayor. He closed his eyes. "Dismiss me."

"I…I beg your pardon?"

Javert sighed. "You asked if there was anything you could do to repay my…my _kindness_," he sneered. "I request that you dismiss me."

"But _why_?"

He whirled to face him. "You _know_ WHY!" he roared.

A tiny gasp drew his attention, and his eyes flickered down to the small girl who had retreated back behind her father's legs. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice to barely a whisper.

"I have disgraced the uniform," he said quietly. "I no longer deserve to wear it." He gazed at him levelly, aware that the other man understood the necessity of being cryptic. "I have made what some would consider an error in judgment…one that I cannot undo. I do not ask you to correct that judgment…only to understand that someone must pay the price for the injustice that was done. So I ask that you dismiss me…or at the very least send me away. But I cannot continue in this…this _farce!_"

"And what charges would you have me bring against you, Javert? How could I publicly dismiss the man who saved my life?"

"_After_ you saved mine," he reminded him bitterly.

A blonde head peeked out from behind the gray trousers. "You're going away?" she asked sadly.

"Yes."

"No," countered Valjean.

Javert sent him a withering glare. "It's difficult to explain."

Cosette approached the desk. "But you can't leave! You said you'd come visit!" She frowned. "You _promised_!"

"Cosette…" he started.

She kicked distractedly at a pebble on the floor. "That's what Maman said, too." She crossed her arms. "She said she'd come back and get me, but she never did. She just left." She looked down. "Everybody always leaves…."

Perhaps it was the tiny seed of guilt in the pit of his stomach that reminded him of his part in her mother's demise—so many women lied about having a family or children, how was he to know she had been telling him the truth? Or perhaps it was the memory of his own mother disappearing, leaving him behind with a similar promise as she vanished into the night, the fear of being a child alone in the world, in the dark. Perhaps it was simply the look in her eyes—eyes so much like Fantine's—the pleading, imploring desperation of one who was trusting him with her very soul. Whatever the reason, Javert knew in that moment that he could not leave.

He could not run from this mistake…but neither could he turn himself in. For to ruin himself was to ruin Valjean…and that, in turn, would ruin Cosette. And to carelessly condemn the soul of a child would be a far greater sin even in _his_ mind than to live on in freedom with the knowledge of his crime. Perhaps, in a way, this _was_ his punishment—this anguish, this _torture _of being aware of his misdeeds and unable to act upon it was nearly unbearable. But bear it he would, and bear it he must…for there was no other way that he could see. A coward ran. A just man did not sentence the innocent along with the guilty. There was no other option but to accept the lot that he'd been given and make the most of it.

He sighed heavily. "Very well, monsieur," he addressed Valjean. "Since you will neither dismiss me nor allow me to transfer elsewhere, I will continue in my position here to the best of my abilities."

Cosette perked up.

"I will not remind you of my…error…nor speak of what is past. BUT," he looked pointedly at Valjean, "should a similar situation arise, I can promise you that I will _not_ fail in my duty again."

"Of course," Mayor Madeleine nodded. "I would expect nothing less." He replaced the hat upon his head. "Good night, Inspector."

He offered his hand. It was a gesture of friendship and goodwill, a peace offering of sorts…and yet Javert could not accept it. To do so would put them on the same level; they would be neither mayor and subordinate nor officer and convict, neither French and gypsy nor Roma and _gadje_—simply two ordinary men, equal in all respects. And although he was uncertain as to which one of them was the inferior of the two, Javert knew that they would never be equals.

He pretended not to notice the gesture and opted for another polite bow instead. "Monsieur le Maire."

Valjean retracted the hand with a slight frown but did not press the issue. "Come, Cosette," he said, reaching for his daughter. "We must leave the inspector to his work."

Cosette wrapped a tiny hand around his fingers and followed him out the door, pausing to look back over her shoulder only once. When she caught Javert watching her, she smiled.

Javert did not smile back.

Trust did not come easily to the inspector. From the very beginning, he'd been taught not to trust anyone or anything besides the law, and now even _that_ had failed him, his one constant anchor cast aside as he drifted farther and farther away from everything he'd ever known…. And yet Fate, it seemed, with her invisible hand—for he dared not refer to that omniscient Being as God—was forcing him to trust Valjean. Their secrets were entwined, and while he did not think it likely that the mayor would be foolish enough to divulge any information that could potentially get himself caught, he did not like the feeling of knowing that another man held his future in his hands. No, Javert did not trust easily at all…but now he was trusting Valjean with his life. He had no other choice.

xxxx

Cosette was silent most of the way home. Inspector Javert was an enigma in her young mind. While she counted him as a friend, the tough outer shell she'd thought she'd broken through had reappeared again tonight. As before, he had been relatively civil but distant and stern. She wondered whether perhaps she had done something to upset him; at one point, he had certainly seemed angry about _something_. But he was not leaving, so whatever it was that had happened, he must not have been _too _upset about it. She frowned.

The dark-skinned, long-haired man was different from anyone she'd ever met. He had described himself as a "gypsy," and although Cosette didn't really know what that meant, she had overheard enough conversations during her time with the Thénardiers to know that the word was typically used in conjunction with a long string of curses and other foul words that made her cheeks burn even if she didn't fully understand them. She knew they were bad words because Madame had often screamed them at her when she was angry, and the first time she'd asked her Papa what they meant, he'd nearly fainted out of shock. She had been more careful after that, mentally taking note of words she did not understand but asking only about those she felt were "safe." Thus, Cosette was hesitant to ask her father what a gypsy was and why her new friend had called himself one. She knew it had something to do with the fact that he was darker than most men and that it was something he seemed ashamed of…but what she couldn't understand was _why_. Why did it matter if someone's skin was light or dark? If their hair was brown or blonde or black? While she admitted that his appearance had frightened her at first, his dark complexion was only half the reason; his lofty stature and piercing gaze alone would have been enough to make even a grown man quiver, regardless of his race.

There was something in that gaze that felt empty…almost sad. Those silver eyes were as hard as steel and cold as ice, his bushy brows knit together in such a way that he seemed to wear a perpetual scowl, giving the impression that he was always in foul mood wavering somewhere between righteous anger and a deep sort of melancholy that stemmed from self-loathing. She wondered if the man knew how to smile. She had seen a hint of one here and there, but even then it had been tinged with sadness, a small, slightly upward turn of the corner of the lips that more closely resembled a feral snarl than an actual expression of joy, as if he were hesitant to show that he was capable of feeling, afraid of being happy for too long.

When he spoke, it was in clipped tones, short replies that required as little effort on his behalf as possible. His voice was gruff and commanding, never soft and gentle like her Papa's. Even his best attempts to sound non-threatening still felt indifferent and cold.

He did not like to touch. While Papa held her hand and hugged her often and kissed her cheek as she fell asleep each night, the inspector had tolerated the crying child latching onto him with about as much comfort as he would have regarded a starving leech. But he _had_ tolerated her—something neither of the Thénardiers would have done. And he had saved her Papa—something that by itself was enough to make him the sun, moon, and stars in her eyes. He was a _good_ man—of that, she was sure. But he was not a loving man. And it was this contradiction that confused her the most.

"Cosette, you've been awfully quiet since our visit with the inspector." Valjean fumbled for the keys in his pocket. "Is everything alright?" He unlocked the door and motioned for her to go inside.

Cosette sighed. She was debating whether or not to ask him what a gypsy was when another question popped into her mind. "Papa, why is Monsieur Javert so angry all the time?"

Valjean blinked in surprise. Whatever question he had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. He just…never seems happy. Like he doesn't know how to be. Why is that?"

The older man was quiet for a moment, taking a seat on the couch that still bore the bloodstains from where he had lain injured while Javert had tended to his wounds. "Cosette, come here for a moment." He patted his leg. "I want to show you something."

The girl readily complied, climbing up onto the sofa and scooting herself closer until she had wriggled underneath one of his arms and was seated comfortably in his lap. She looked up at him expectantly.

Valjean smiled. "Do you see that lamp on the table, Cosette?" He inclined his head in the direction of the coffee table in front of them.

Cosette nodded.

"How long do you think it would it burn without any oil?"

The girl scrunched up her face in a frown. "Not very long. The oil is what keeps it burning, isn't it, Papa?"

"That's right, Cosette. Without a supply of oil, the wick would be burned up very quickly. You see, Cosette, the lamp cannot give off much light without a source of fuel to keep it going. Love is a bit like that. It's something that cannot be given away without the source having first been received. An empty oil lamp is capable of giving light, but it must be filled with oil before that potential can be realized. God is the source of the continuous flame of love that burns within our hearts, but He depends on us to temporarily feed the flame in others. For people who have received but little love in their life, it is hardly a wonder that their lamps no longer burn; it is not entirely their fault. Sometimes even when we _do_ give love away, it is not enough. Sometimes the vessel has been cracked, and it seems as though it will never be full again—but God calls us to continuously try to refill it anyway. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly. "I think so…." She frowned. "So…if someone's vessel is cracked…does that mean their heart is broken?"

Valjean considered her words. "I…suppose that's one way of looking at, yes."

She bit her lower lip, concerned. "Does it hurt?" she asked.

Her father frowned. "Does _what _hurt, Cosette?"

"Having a broken heart." She cocked her head. "When you break an arm or a leg, it hurts," she explained. "Is having a broken heart like that?

"In a way," he answered. "It's not the same _kind_ of hurt, but it _can_ cause a person to be in a lot of pain. I should know." He smiled gently. "I had one once."

"No wonder he's always so crabby," she mumbled.

Valjean chuckled softly.

Suddenly she looked up, hopeful. "But it can be fixed, right? I mean, yours was, wasn't it?"

"Only after many years of struggling with it, and only when I allowed it to be. Mending a heart is not like mending a sock, Cosette. It takes a lot of time, and sometimes the person may not allow anyone to do the mending because they have become so accustomed to living with that pain that they're afraid of what might happen if they let it go."

Cosette looked sad. "Monsieur Javert helped you when you were sick. Can't we do something to help _him_?"

"You _are_ doing something, Cosette. By showing concern for him and being nice to him, you're being a good friend. But I'm afraid that's the most we can do. That and pray. The rest is up to him."

From that moment forward, Cosette came to accept Javert as he was under the impression that there was something fundamentally wrong with him, an illness of sorts that prevented him from loving—a malady which increased both her pity for him and her determination to help seal up the cracks and pour out her heart until his was full. If she had known just how long the road to his recovery would be, she might have hesitated. But she was young and optimistic and believed that he would thank her once he had been rescued from his plight. She did not understand that a drowning man who does not cry out may not want to be saved.


	3. The Prayer of the Innocent

**Chapter Three: The Prayer of the Innocent**

Javert sighed with relief as the mayor excused himself from his office, sinking into the chair the moment the door had closed behind him. The inspector wasn't one for dramatics, but the encounter had left him rather shaken. He had been struggling with his conscience since the moment he'd decided to take matters into his own hands by saving Valjean rather than immediately turning him over to the authorities, but to face his old nemesis again under such cordial circumstances and confront the problem head-on had fully drained him of all his former convictions. And it was terrifying. To see the world with new eyes was a revelation too dazzling for him to understand, and truth be told, he had rather that he had remained blind. It seemed terribly childish to close his eyes now in the belief that it would make the object of his fright disappear, but he knew no other way to proceed; a man who cannot bear to see the horrors revealed by the light of day finds safety in the night.

So he shrugged on his coat, put on his favorite hat, and headed out to make his usual rounds.

xxxx

It was an hour or two into his shift—around ten o'clock by his account—when he happened to pass by the mayor's house. Ordinarily, he would have kept on walking. There was no danger in the area—no screams, no muggings, no murders. No suspicious-looking characters hanging about. Not even a beggar out on the streets. The town was serenely silent but for a quiet murmur that caught his attention. The voice seemed to be coming from an upstairs window that had been left slightly ajar. Cosette's room, he remembered, was on the second floor at the end of the hall. In the soft glow of the moonlight, he could see a tiny figure in white kneeling by the bed. She was praying. Not wanting to intrude on such a private moment, he turned to leave but stopped short when he thought he heard his name. Intrigued, Javert held his breath and strained to make out what the girl was saying.

"Umm…hi, God. It's me, Cosette. I'm not very good at this, but Papa says I should talk to You, so I'll try. He says You love me—even more than _he_ does, which is a lot…but if You do, then why did I have to stay with Monsieur and Madame for so long? I guess maybe You just forgot since You've got so many people to worry about…. It's alright, though, because I have Papa now."

She paused.

"And Monsieur Javert. I think he might be mad at me, though." She frowned.

At this, Javert's eyebrows shot up. Had the girl misconstrued his frustration with himself as anger towards her? He remembered how she'd shied away behind her father's legs when he'd briefly lost his temper and silently cursed himself.

"Whatever I did, please tell him I'm sorry. I don't want him to leave. I'm scared if he does, I'll never see him again…like Maman."

She took a deep breath.

"Papa said she was planning to come back for me and that she did everything she could to help me but I still don't understand why she left. Sometimes I'm mad at her for leaving me with them, but mostly I just miss her. A lot…."

She sniffed and wiped a sleeve across her eyes.

"Oops! I forgot. Monsieur Javert says I'm not supposed to do that…."

If he was being honest, Javert was rather surprised that the girl remembered anything he'd said that night. She'd been so upset, he didn't think he'd gotten through. It hadn't stopped her from crying, but knowing that she _had_ been listening and was attempting to take his advice to heart felt strangely rewarding. This time, she quickly dried her eyes and got back on track. Perhaps the girl was stronger than he'd given her credit for….

"Papa says she's with You now and that You'll take good care of her," she continued. "He says I'll get to see her again someday. And that she's happy." Cosette sighed. "I hope so." She fidgeted with her nightdress. "If You're not too busy, please tell her how much I love her. I really wish she'd come back…. But I'm glad you sent Papa to me. He's the best Papa ever!"

She paused again.

"I know You have a lot of other people to listen to, so I won't keep You too long. But I know there are some little girls who aren't as lucky as me. Please help them find Papas who love them too."

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "And please help Monsieur Javert. I know he seems kind of scary sometimes, but he's really nice."

Javert snorted disdainfully.

"I don't think he has many friends, and I don't have many friends either…but maybe…if it's alright…we could be friends with each other…."

She frowned.

"Umm…. Well, I think that's about it. I'm getting kind of sleepy." She yawned. "Goodnight, God."

As Cosette finished her prayers and snuggled down beneath the covers, another figure entered the room, kneeling by the bedside and kissing her gently on the forehead.

Javert walked away in a daze, overwhelmed and confused more than ever, marveling over this tiny slip of a girl who held the power to bring a convict to his knees and shatter the foundations of his very world in the palm of her little hand.

By the time Valjean made it over to draw the curtains at the window, Javert had disappeared.


	4. To Hear a Flower Speak

**Chapter Four: To Hear a Flower Speak**

Another two weeks passed without incident. Javert continued to fulfill his duty as he had before, the only difference being that he now regarded the mayor with a greater deal of respect…and perhaps a tiny bit of apprehension. Though he did not actively avoid the former convict, he made every attempt to keep any necessary business meetings as short and to the point as possible and kept himself busier than usual to evade any potential social interaction with the man outside of work. On his walks to and from the station, he did not alter his route to bypass the mayor's house, but he never initiated eye contact if they happened to pass one another on the street. If the mayor happened to catch his eye, he quickly doffed his hat and hurried on his way. This worked well for a while, neither man wanting to interfere with the other's life at the risk of putting himself in further danger. It was an unspoken agreement of sorts, an uneasy pact between the two of them that each man would allow his former enemy to carry on with his life at the price of his own freedom. It was a good arrangement—one that almost allowed Javert to forget the atrocity he'd committed and the moral questions that had arisen. The convict who pretended to be the mayor went back to pretending to be the mayor; the dutiful inspector who pretended he knew nothing went back to pretending he knew nothing; and everyone else in the town remained blissfully oblivious, unaware that both men were merely actors playing a part. It was exactly the way that things had always been, and Javert would have been satisfied, if not exactly happy, if it was the way things had remained. After all, he reasoned, he _had_ brought his concerns before the Prefect with what he considered to be ample evidence, and the man had called him a fool; that new evidence had come to light since then only reinforced the truth which he had _already_ presented. Javert had done his duty; if the Prefect hadn't listened to him the first time around, who was to say he'd listen now? Javert took some comfort in this thought, and he might well have eventually convinced himself to forget the whole affair had been anything more than a bad dream if not for one small detail that neither man had counted on—a third party to the agreement…Cosette.

By the beginning of the third week, the effects of Javert's latest personal encounter with the mayor were starting to wear off. He was feeling more like himself again; the uncertainty had passed, replaced by the calm, self-assured confidence of a man who knows his way is right. One flaw in the law that had thus far sustained him in every other situation would not deter him from striving for perfection; Jean Valjean's case was one among millions—a fluke rather than the norm. The law had simply not been prepared to deal with such an odd case of human nature working in reverse—a falling star did not leap back up into the heavens. Surely no one could have seen it coming.

It was in this state of mind which Javert came across a rather odd scene—one that caught him so off guard he had to take a second glance to be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. It was an early spring morning, the air cool and fresh from the light rain that had fallen the night before which still clung to the damp earth in sparkling drops of dew on every spider web and blade of grass. The sun was well up beyond the horizon, the sky having faded from gray to pink to gold to a stunning shade of blue so bright it almost hurt if one looked at it for very long. Somewhere overhead a lark was calling. But it wasn't the lark in the _sky_ which concerned him.

Cosette was picking flowers, an activity not all that surprising in and of itself until one considered the location—the city cemetery. Hair wreathed in a crown of golden blossoms, she might have been a little sprite, flitting from one flower to the next. Or perhaps a young Persephone, perfectly unaware of Hades waiting to carry her off as she danced out in the field and gathered spring into her arms. There was something perversely beautiful about hearing a child's laughter amid the silent echoes of the grave, something that stirred the ghosts of the past within his mind, a faint flicker of a memory from long ago that he could no longer place. Javert shuddered and drew the greatcoat tighter about his shoulders…but it was not cold.

Valjean was nearby, spreading a blanket on the ground beneath an old oak that was just beginning to show the first green buds of the season, watching her with a wistful sort of smile that told of days gone by. Javert wondered whether he was remembering the family he'd left behind, the children he had stolen for—children who were likely now resting somewhere in shallow graves of their own. The mayor addressed him without turning around.

"It is nice to be young," he said quietly. "To be so innocent, so free…." He shook his head. "Sometimes I envy her."

Javert, unaware at first that he had approached close enough for the mayor to detect his presence, leaned an arm against the wrought iron fence. It still felt strange to address the former prisoner with such candor, but he could not politely excuse himself from the conversation…and if he was being perfectly honest, he was rather curious. He frowned. "What is she doing?"

Valjean turned slightly, looking over his shoulder so that he was partially facing the inspector. He smiled sadly. "Spending time with her mother." He looked away. "She has been asking quite a lot about her lately. I thought it might be good for her to come here."

Before Javert could respond, the girl in question came running over to greet them, her arms full of flowers and her face lit up with a perfect, pearly grin that could have outshone the sun.

"Monsieur Javert!" She dropped the bouquet at her feet, smiling. "Did you come to visit Maman, too?"

Javert almost laughed at the absurdity of the notion but caught himself in time. Thankfully, Cosette didn't wait for him to respond. She turned back to her father, excitedly clasping his hands.

"Oh, Papa! Look at all the beautiful flowers! What a lovely place to rest!"

Though she did not quite understand how her mother could be both awake in heaven and sleeping in the grave, she trusted her Papa, and if he said it was true, then she believed him. In her mind, she imagined Fantine singing with the angels among the clouds each day and coming back to earth to sleep in the moonlit field by night. The idea was enchanting, if not exactly accurate, and Valjean—for Cosette's sake—had not the heart to correct her impression.

Javert, on the other hand, had a more realistic view of things. What Cosette had called "a lovely place to rest" was actually little more than a patch of field overgrown with weeds. Fantine had been buried in a pauper's grave, outside the main gate that separated the holy ones from those who had died in disgrace—the prostitutes, the criminals, the suicides, the undesirables too poor to afford to be buried anywhere else. Some had headstones that were little more than a large rock; some had no headstones at all. Even in death, they were segregated by class. There was only one thing lower than a sinner, and that was a gypsy. Being half Roma himself, Javert sometimes wondered whether he'd be given a Christian burial at all.

"I can't wait for Maman to see all of the flowers I got for her!" Cosette's voice interrupted his thoughts. She looked from Valjean to Javert. "Do you think she'll like them?"

Javert didn't know which troubled him more—that Cosette seemed to think her mother was now some sort of magical, invisible being who visited in the night and accepted offerings like those left for Pére Noël, or the fact that Valjean allowed her to believe in such folly. Though he was becoming _slightly_ more open to the possibility of God (and really, he was beginning to be rather annoyed with said Deity for troubling him with unanswerable questions yet again), such superstitious nonsense seemed a bit far-fetched even for the deeply religious mayor. Were there such things as angels? Perhaps. Javert did not know. Did they behave as Cosette seemed to think? Most assuredly not.

"I'm certain she'll love them, Cosette," Valjean answered for him.

Cosette beamed.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "I almost forgot!" She picked up a small handful of flowers—mostly weeds with a few odd daisies mixed in—out of the heap she'd dropped at her feet and handed them to her father. "These are for you, Papa."

Valjean kissed her cheek fondly. "Thank you, Cosette."

She blushed, then snatched up another handful and turned to Javert. "And these are for you."

Javert stared down at the tiny fistful of weeds that had been thrust into his face—a wiry clump of purple asters, a sprig of white wood anemone, a smattering of ruby red poppies...and in the center a single yellow daffodil. In her little eight year-old mind, it was an innocent enough gift, but to a man who had been raised by a gypsy fortuneteller, the flowers held a much deeper meaning. In his mother's culture, everything had been symbolic, everything had been sacred—from the stars in the heavens to the flowers springing up out of the ground beneath his feet. Everything held meaning. If one listened closely, the earth itself spoke. Javert, of course, had never really put much stock into any of his mother's superstitions, but the language of the flowers had been useful. He wasn't quite as fluent as his mother, but he had learned a lot by watching her. It was the safest and easiest way she'd had to correspond with her supposed husband, sending secret messages in a code that only he could understand—a pressed piece of foliage slipped between blank pages folded like a note that, if confiscated, would tell no one her of her secrets or her plans. It had been years since he'd used the language, but seeing the flowers before him now, all of his knowledge came rushing back. The first three were easy enough to decipher; asters were a symbol of love while anemone and poppies signified death—both understandable interpretations given that the arrangement she'd plucked the flowers from had been originally intended for her mother's grave. But the other flower…. It was the only one like it in the entire bouquet, and yet, she had picked up and offered it to him.

His hand nearly trembled as he reached out to touch the golden velvet petals. Daffodils symbolized rebirth…new beginnings….

"Forgiveness," he breathed.

Javert shook his head. He was being foolish. There was nothing he needed to be forgiven of, and even if there _was_, Cosette certainly wouldn't have known about it. To her, it was just a handful of flowers. He pulled his hand away without accepting the bouquet.

"I…I should be going."

Cosette frowned. "Don't you want to take your flowers with you?"

He started to simply walk away but inexplicably found that he felt he owed her an explanation. "I have nowhere to put them," he argued practically.

"Yes you do! You can put them in your pocket!" She reached a slender little arm through the bars of the fence and tucked one end of the bouquet into a side pocket of his greatcoat. She smiled, satisfied. "See? It fits perfectly!"

Javert conceded. "So it does…."

"Then maybe when you get home you can use them to decorate the table or something."

"Mmmh."

Valjean couldn't suppress a slight grin at the thought of Montreuil's most terrifying inspector decorating his kitchen with flowers.

Javert noticed it and glared daggers.

"Well, _Monsieur le Maire_," he said with a hint of warning and cynical disdain, "I really should be returning home. Good day to you, monsieur." He tipped his hat, then, in a slightly softer tone of voice, added, "Mademoiselle Cosette."

A moment later, and he was headed back down the street that led to his apartment. It was a rather lengthy walk, and though the sun was now high in the sky, the air was still cool. He kept his hands jammed down into his pockets, fingering the daffodil all the way home.


	5. Stargazing

**Chapter Five: Stargazing**

Night in the sleepy little town of Montreuil-sur-Mer was very different from the nights he had spent in Toulon. As a boy, he had very quickly learned that the darkness was a friend to two very different sorts of creatures—the vermin who hid among the shadows by daylight and plundered the dwellings of the innocent by night and the cat who creeps on silent paws, waiting for its prey to make a mistake with flattened ears and unsheathed claws. There was something of both in Javert—something instinctive, something primal—the hunter and the hunted in one body, a child born into the world conflicted, conceived in sin and nurtured on the milk of Law that tasted sweet but had somehow soured in his belly and now spewed forth in acid words and dour convictions, a rancid form of righteousness that made even the most dedicated of his peers shrink back out of fear that his malady was catching. Javert was aware of this to some degree; he had known from the beginning that he was something of an anomaly. By nature, the illegitimate offspring of a convict and a gypsy whore should have been a criminal; by his upbringing, he had become an officer. But the law was a harsh mentor, dealing more in blows than motherly caresses, and so he had missed out on one critical life lesson—how to deal with that part of himself that longed for human company.

For the most part, he had learned to ignore it, the old familiar ache like a wound of war, a scar long healed over that only troubled him on the darkest, coldest nights. As a guard, he'd been too preoccupied with prisoner escapes, cellmate violence, and morally compromising subordinate officers to feel the sting of loneliness and regret. There was never enough time to think—just enough to react to the situation at hand…and that was how he preferred it.

But Montreuil was a different world, the quiet nights giving him far more time to ruminate over decisions past and present than he liked. Too much time to think always brought on unexpected pangs of melancholy, and tonight was no exception, a sudden and acute awareness of how alone he was engulfing the inspector as he surveyed the town square—which on the morrow would be bustling with life—now deserted as an empty tomb. Ordinarily, he shoved it down, swallowing the bitterness as one would take a dose of medicine in the hopes that, upon consumption, it would prove to bring relief rather than indigestion. On occasion, however, when the mood struck him deeply, he allowed himself to indulge in a moment of quiet—often painful—reflection. This was one of those rare nights he found himself feeling lost, seeking solace among the stars.

The sky was clear that night, a round, full moon as perfect as a newly minted silver coin suspended in the inky firmament above, its ethereal glow transforming the blackened scroll of the heavens into a deep blue canvas splashed with stars, each one a tiny diamond that winked and glittered more brightly than the last. The stars were quiet companions, never complaining, never judging; their light shone on the just and the unjust alike. As a child, he'd heard his mother recount her people's stories; according to her, the stars held both lessons of the past and the mysteries of the future. They were constant, never-changing—a pillar of order amid the chaos of the natural world. (The idea that the existence of such order might possibly imply the presence of a higher Being had never crossed his mind. That it did so on this night greatly troubled his already wearied mind.) They made him realize just how insignificant he was in the grand scheme of the universe…and yet somehow, inexplicably, they made him feel as though he was not quite so alone.

It was in these sacred moments, these brief periods of respite, that one might catch a brief glimpse of the boy Javert once was and the man he might have been. There was a different look about him, a tiny spark of humanity that one might have mistaken for a tear glistening in the corner of his eye, an ache in the void of his chest where a heart should have been. The lines on his face had been completely rearranged, the angry creases on his forehead from years of a furrowed brow having slipped down toward his chin, thin lips drooping in a slight frown. His back was still straight, his steps still measured and steady…but while he maintained his usual air of confidence, his demeanor wasn't nearly as threatening. In fact, if one stared for too long, he might have easily mistaken the inspector for another man.

The sound of shattering glass roused him from his musings. Javert jerked his head in the direction of the sound, a slight movement among the shadows of a darkened alley alerting him to the most likely location of the break-in. Immediately, he was back in action, all traces of his former mood having vanished, replaced by the ravenous grin of a wolf on the hunt. Cudgel in hand, he approached.

There was a muffled moan.

Had the thief hurt someone? Was he armed? Javert slipped into the shadows.

"Who goes there?"

There were no footsteps running away. The criminal had either already vacated the premises or was planning to stand and fight—a rather foolish tactic if he was alone. This alley was a dead end. How many people was he up against, Javert wondered? He fingered the pistol at his side.

"Enough of your games! Show yourself!"

He raised the cudgel.

"M-monsieur Javert? Is that you?"

Javert blinked. "Cosette?"

The hand carrying the cudgel fell to his side.

She was on her hands and knees, one arm cut and bleeding, one ankle twisted in an impossible position. His gaze wandered to a discarded window frame that lay propped against one of the walls. A few of the panes were cracked or missing; one was shattered where her left arm had gone through when she'd tripped on the uneven stones of the pavement. Javert cursed under his breath.

"What the devil are you doing out here at this hour?!"

"I got lost…." She looked down sheepishly.

"I see." He frowned, raising a bushy eyebrow. "I don't suppose your _father_…."

He paused at the word. It was strange how easily he'd begun referring to Valjean as the girl's father. It was, he supposed, close enough to the truth, as the man had done more for Cosette than Fantine's tomcat of a lover ever had. But it felt odd, out of place. Before, if anyone had told him that the formidable 24601 would be worried sick over a little girl's midnight escapades, he would have laughed in their face, but now….

He could see the older man tearing the house apart in a panic when he realized Cosette was missing.

He started again. "I don't suppose your father knows about this little misadventure of yours, does he?"

She ducked her head further. "No…."

Something inside Javert snapped. That the girl had likely been sent on many late night errands in her time with the innkeepers was no excuse for her current situation. The mayor hardly let the girl out of his sight. If she was running away—which he highly doubted, as the girl seemed nearly as attached to her father as Valjean was to her—she was turning down a rare and valuable gift—one that Javert himself had never been offered. All people were born with biological parents; some were lucky enough to be born with parents who loved them…but few, indeed, were the ones who were offered the affection of a stranger—a father or a mother who _chose_ to love not because they were of one flesh and blood but because they were of one _spirit_. If she was simply out looking for an adventure, she had needlessly put herself in grave danger without considering the consequences. At best, she had been careless; at worst, downright selfish. Javert imagined a hundred different scenarios in which the first to find her had been anyone other than himself. They all ended badly—a stack of "Missing" flyers on his desk, a headline in the local paper, a mangled little body lying amid the refuse in a darkened alleyway. The last one wasn't too far from the truth and—though about as far from squeamish as they come—the thought made him feel terribly sick.

What Javert was feeling was _concern_, but being unaccustomed as he was to human interaction, he did not know that and so channeled the unwanted emotion through another with which he was more familiar and which made him less vulnerable—anger.

"You foolish, _idiot_ child! What were you _thinking?!_ How could you be so _stupid _as to—" The words died on his lips when he looked down.

Cosette had not cried when she fell. She had not shed a tear when her arm went through the glass. Physical pain was something she'd learned to accept. But such harsh verbal abuse coming from someone that she trusted hurt more than if he'd slapped her. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes, though she dared not let him see them fall.

"I just wanted to see Maman," she said quietly. "Papa said she sleeps in the meadow. I thought maybe I could catch her while she was asleep and she wouldn't have to go back to heaven tomorrow…or maybe I could at least talk to her before she has to leave again…."

Javert's jaw snapped shut, the anger immediately drained from his face. He sighed deeply.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works."

"Oh."

There was a moment of silence too deep for either one of them to fathom. Javert sighed again and knelt down beside her.

"Let me see your arm."

Dutifully, she held it out, her pale little limb a twig in the dark hands of a giant as he glanced over the wounds. She cut her palm in several places, a few shards of glass wedged deep into the skin from the impact of her fall. The arm itself was slightly better off, the most noticeable gash forming a long, jagged line that ran nearly from the wrist up to the elbow, which while not deep, had nicked the artery, making the wound appear more severe than it actually was. Javert muttered another curse as he carefully pushed up the torn, blood-soaked sleeve of her nightdress and attempted to stem the bleeding.

"It doesn't hurt as bad as it looks," she assured him.

Javert merely grunted in response, more focused on treating the wound than engaging in conversation. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, tearing off a few strips of cloth which he tied snugly around her lower arm just beneath the elbow.

He then turned to examining the hand. Most of the glass was in big enough pieces that they could be picked out without the aid of a set of tweezers, though his hands were a good deal larger than hers, which would make the removal somewhat difficult.

"This is going to hurt a bit," he warned.

Cosette shrugged it off.

_What sort of hell have you been through, _he wondered to himself, _that such an injury is nothing to you?_

He worked in silence for a while, the only sound the crunching of glass beneath his boots as he shifted his weight and the occasional hiss of pain from Cosette. As he removed the last sliver from her palm and finished bandaging the hand, his eyes flickered to her swollen ankle, and almost instantly, her demeanor changed. She tensed, eyes wide as those of a startled doe.

What it was that made this injury different, he could not say, but as he reached for her leg, she shied away.

"Cosette," he tried a rational approach, "I need to look at your ankle. It could be broken."

She shook her head violently, backing up against the wall. "No! It's fine."

The nightdress had been pushed up nearly to her knees, exposing the majority of her lower legs, one of which, he noticed, seemed just the slightest bit crooked, as if it had been broken and never healed properly. He frowned. Had the Thénardiers actually beaten her to the point of breaking bones? Blood stained carpets and ruined clothing, but a broken arm or leg cost no one but the victim. In the prisons, he'd seen plenty of men break bones—both fellow officers and convicts; some of the newcomers complained, but most quickly learned to grit their teeth and bear it. Crying out drew unwanted attention, anyone who showed signs of weakness—whether convict or guard—never lasted in Toulon for long. Before, when she had thought Valjean to be approaching death, Cosette had given in to her emotional distress, but physically, she seemed to have an unnaturally high tolerance for pain. Perhaps she had refrained from crying in the current situation not out of bravery but out of habit—out of fear. But a broken ankle was far worse than a few scratches on the hand. It would be much more difficult for her not to scream if he touched it, and she likely feared the repercussions more than the pain itself. Having endured a fair number of blows himself as a child, Javert understood her predicament all too well.

"They hit you if you screamed."

It was not a question but an observation. He didn't have to specify who "they" were. He could barely hear her response.

"Sometimes."

"Do you think _I _would hit you?"

She was trembling.

Javert grabbed her by the shoulders. "You answer me when I speak to you, child! _Do you think I would hit you?_"

Her gaze wandered from the cudgel at his side to the massive hands that gripped her shoulders before slowly coming to rest on his eyes. She shook her head.

Javert let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Good. Now, I am _going _to examine that ankle. It_ will_ hurt, and you can scream as loud as you like, but it _must_ be done. Understood?"

Her lips had gone white, but she nodded numbly.

He reached again for the ankle, running his fingers gently over the swollen skin. Cosette whimpered, latching onto his arm and burying her face into his chest, but made no further sound.

"Well," he concluded after a moment more of prodding, "it looks as though it's only sprained, not broken. You'll live."

Cosette released her grip, letting out a sigh of relief.

Javert stood, eyeing her with a mixture of discreet pride and reluctant concern. "Can you stand?"

He did not offer her a hand but waited instead to see if she could manage on her own. He did not expect her to walk all the way home, but he would not carry her unless the situation warranted it. Javert asked nothing of others that he did not require of himself. He had learned early on that he was expected to pull his own weight, and although he was fair, no one would ever call him a pushover.

Using the wall of the alley as a brace, Cosette pushed herself up. But the moment she tried to put weight on the injured foot, she let out a yelp, losing her balance for a split second until she fell back against the wall. She slid down into a sitting position, panting. When she had caught her breath, she started to get up again but stopped when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder push her back down.

"Alright. That's enough. Don't hurt yourself."

Cosette seemed suddenly fearful. "I'm fine! I can walk! Really, I—"

"Not on _that_ foot you can't."

"But—"

"Are you going to sit there and argue with me all night, or do you want to go home?"

The girl frowned.

Javert continued without waiting for a response. "I wanted you to _try_ to walk on your own. You did. However, that being said, it is obvious that putting even the slightest bit of weight on that foot causes you a great deal of pain. You shouldn't be _standing _on it, much less _walking_. A man would have to be a either a fool or a sadist to expect anything more."

She looked down. "Monsieur and Madame Thénardier would have," she said quietly.

Javert frowned. He had expected as much. "Yes, well…I am not Monsieur or Madame Thénardier."

Cosette offered him a tentative smile.

Javert cleared his throat. "Right then." He knelt down to her level. "Up you go."

Truth be told, Javert had no idea how to pick up a child—particularly a rather fragile, injured child. But Cosette, locking her arms around his neck like a little spider monkey, was more than accommodating, and as with everything else, Javert was a surprisingly fast learner.

They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. But as Javert had learned, silence, when Cosette was around, was a rare and precious commodity. She followed his gaze up to the sky.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"The stars," he answered bluntly. Then, a little quieter, as if to himself, he added, "They keep me company."

Cosette frowned, confused but intrigued. "Stars talk?"

"If you know how to listen."

"What do they say?"

The inspector shrugged. "Stories. Legends. Nonsense, mostly."

Cosette hesitated. "Would…would you tell me one?"

Javert slipped back into his mother's storytelling with startling ease. He remembered the night after she had left, remembered thinking that somewhere, beneath that canvas of stars, his mother was looking up at the very same sky. It was the first time he'd ever been on his own, and to a frightened little boy who had no friends but the stars, they'd seemed so close that, had he wanted to, he could have plucked one from the heavens. He had needed the stars then, needed something, _someone_ to believe in—someone who would never leave. It was not enough—had never been enough. But at least it was something.

He pointed to a group of four stars in the distance. "You see those stars over there? The ones that look like they're in the shape of a kite? That is the head of the constellation Draco, the dragon." His finger trailed an invisible line, connecting the dots of light. "The tail of the kite is the body of the dragon. According to legend, he was part of a great battle. When he lost, as punishment for his crimes, he was cast into the sky."

Cosette thought for a moment. "Do the stars know any stories about princesses?" she asked eagerly.

Javert nodded to a small cluster of stars overhead. "See those five stars? The ones that form a jagged line that looks like two mountain peaks?"

Cosette nodded.

"That's Queen Cassiopeia. That bunch beside her is her husband, King Cepheus. They ruled a kingdom by the sea. The queen was beautiful, but she was also very vain. So vain, in fact, that she bragged she and her daughter Andromeda—she has a constellation named after her as well, but it's not visible this time of year—were more beautiful than even the immortal daughters of Poseidon, the king of the sea. Poseidon, of course, became angry and as punishment, sent a sea monster to devour the princess."

Cosette gasped.

"Fortunately for her, Perseus, the nephew of a neighboring king, slew the beast before it could harm her."

"Do all the stars tell stories?" she asked.

"Most."

The girl scrunched up her face, pointing to an area that the inspector had yet to discuss before her finger settled over a bright pinprick of light in the northern sky. "What about that one?

"Ah." There was a whisper of longing in his voice. "Now _that_ is a very important star. It's part of the constellation called Ursa Minor, The Little Bear." He traced the outline of the figure in the air. "That particular star is called Polaris or The North Star because it sits almost exactly over the North Pole. And no matter where you go in the world…as long as you know where you came from…it will always lead you home."

As he spoke, the star seemed to settle directly over a second-story window. The mayor, apparently, had not heard any disturbance from his bedroom down the hall and was still sound asleep.

Cosette, growing more tired by the minute now that she knew she was home, laid her head against the inspector's shoulder, still pondering the stars. There were hundreds—no, _thousands_—scattered throughout the early morning sky—so many that Cosette wondered how God had managed to fit them all in together…and yet not a single pair seemed to be touching. Their light, though beautiful, seemed cold and dim compared to the sun, each one a tiny candle whose flame was lost amid the darkness. She frowned.

"Monsieur Javert…do the stars ever get lonely?"

Somewhere upstairs, a light flickered on, though whether it was Cosette's voice carrying through the open window or Javert's presence alone that had awakened Valjean, the inspector didn't know. His gaze wandered back to the child in his arms, her eyelids having finally grown heavy from a lack of sleep after her exhausting adventure.

"Perhaps, Cosette," he whispered into the night. "Perhaps sometimes they do."


	6. What is Written in the Heart

**Author's Note: Well, I'm still not entirely happy with this one, but maybe you guys will like it. The good news is that I'm already about halfway through the next chapter, so it should be up soon. :)**

**Chapter Six: What is Written in the Heart May be Hidden in a Drawer**

"C-O-S-E-T-T-E. Co-sett-ee. Cosette!" The girl brightened. "You wrote my name, Papa!"

Valjean returned her beaming smile with one of his own. "That's right." He handed her the pen. "Now you try."

She accepted it somewhat hesitantly. They had been working on learning her letters for several weeks now, and although Cosette was an avid student, she had trouble turning the sounds she heard in her mind into words on paper. Reading was not a problem, as the words were already there—she merely had to sound them out. Writing, on the other hand, required that she arrange the letters herself, and sometimes what _sounded_ right just didn't look quite right when she wrote it down. And while she knew her father better than to think he would be angry if she got it wrong, a small part of her still held onto the fear that messing up meant punishment and punishment meant pain. She looked up at him, unsure.

"It's alright, Cosette," Valjean assured her. "I'll help you if you need it. Let's start with something simple. Why don't you try just copying the letters that I wrote. Try to write your name."

Cosette dipped the quill into the inkwell, wiping the excess ink on the lip of the bottle. She put the tip against the paper, the scratching of the parchment painfully slow as she carefully formed each letter. When she finished, she looked up.

Valjean nodded his approval. "Very good, Cosette."

Cosette frowned. "Mine doesn't look as pretty as yours."

He laughed. "Well, that's because I've had a lot more practice. Your writing will improve with time. Now, let's try something a bit harder. I want you to write the word 'Papa.'"

Not for the first time since his release from Toulon, Valjean found himself thanking God for the opportunities he'd been given as a result of his years in the prison. Although the prison itself had been a living hell and he _still _didn't know what had become of his family, more and more he was beginning to realize how God could make the best of a bad situation. The cheap process they had used to make black glass in Toulon had been relatively unknown in the rest of France, allowing him to establish a factory that had all but saved the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer from poverty, and the gift of an education—something he never would have been able to afford back in Faverolles—had proved to be useful beyond measure. With the ability to read, one could find a job, pick up a newspaper and discover the goings-on of the world, share in the wisdom and knowledge of those who had gone before, see the words of God for himself on the gilt pages of a bible and know exactly what they meant. Learning to read had opened up doors he'd once imagined forever barred to someone of his social standing, limiting him only as much as he wanted to limit himself. With education came freedom, and he wanted that freedom for Cosette—wanted her to be able to choose her own path rather than having society decide it for her. If she wanted to be a working woman, well, he certainly wouldn't stop her…but he wanted her to have the option to support herself in a legal, moral manner that did not involve heavy labor in case anything were to happen to him or his growing fortune. In teaching her to read and write, he was ensuring her future, and if it meant that he'd had to go through years of enslavement to a corrupted system of justice to do that, well…it was worth it.

Cosette held up the paper for him to inspect her work. "Er…is this right?" she asked uncertainly.

"Good!" He wrapped his hand around hers that still held the pen. "But the little 'p' goes in the same direction as the big one. Like this." He guided her hand in forming the letter.

"Oh!" Cosette exclaimed. "Oops." She frowned.

"It's alright. You'll get better at it. It was a very good first try. Now, let's see…. What word should we practice with next? Why don't you choose this time?"

Cosette thought for a moment. "How do you spell Monsieur Javert's name?"

Valjean looked surprised. "Why do you want to know how to spell _his_ name, Cosette?"

"I want to make something for him—to thank him for helping me."

Valjean remembered the night the inspector had turned up on his doorstep with an injured Cosette in his arms all too well. He had not spoken a word, merely handed the girl over and returned to his nightly duties as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Since then one might have imagined he'd been more careful about keeping the doors and windows closed, but he knew from experience the unpleasantness of being locked in a room like a caged bird. Instead, he'd had a rather serious discussion with Cosette regarding her misperceptions of the afterlife and why going off alone at night was not safe. She had promised never to do so again, and while he trusted her to keep her word, he shuddered to think what might have happened if Javert hadn't been there that night.

"I think that's a very good idea…though, I'm not sure he'll appreciate it as much as he should."

"But you said we're supposed to keep filling up the vessel, even if it's cracked, right?"

Her father smiled. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"And anyway, he's my best friend—well, besides _you_, Papa."

Valjean had a feeling Javert might dispute such a claim, but given the circumstances, he could hardly deny his daughter the right to thank the man. It was a strange feeling to be indebted to his former captor. Valjean had long struggled to forgive the inspector and the others who'd mistreated him in Toulon, but lately he was finding that the man he'd once believed to be hardly more than a machine—and really, he had almost pitied Javert for it—was, in fact, capable of feeling and acting of his own free will apart from the law. That he had spared him a life of the galleys when he'd had the chance to lock him up had shocked him beyond belief. Now that he owed not only his own life, but Cosette's as well, to the inspector, he was slowly coming to acknowledge a deep respect for the man he'd never thought himself capable of.

"Alright, Cosette. How would _you _spell his name? Sound it out for me."

Cosette pursed her lips. "Zha…Ja…J?" she asked hopefully.

"That's right."

She scratched a few letters on the paper. "J-A…vuh…V?"

Valjean nodded.

She scribbled some more. "Ja-vert. J-A-V-E-R…E?" she guessed.

"Almost. There's a 't' on the end, not an 'e.' It's silent."

She frowned again. "What's the point in having a letter attached to a word if you can't hear it? It doesn't make any sense…."

"You don't hear the 'e' at the end of your name, either, Cosette," he reminded her.

"I know…but I still don't understand _why_," she pouted. "You should spell things the way they sound."

Valjean chuckled softly. "I agree. But I didn't make up the rules."

She crossed her arms. "Well, the rules are silly."

He smiled. "Don't let Javert hear you say that," he teased.

She frowned, confused. "Why not?"

Valjean shook his head. "Never mind. Now, let's try writing a short sentence…."

xxxx

Before the mayor even opened the door, Javert knew it was him. Who else would come barging into his office at such an ungodly hour? Javert rarely received visitors—most knew better than to disturb him while he was working…which was most of the time…and no one ever dared to seek him out after hours. Tonight, rather than making his usual rounds, he'd been assigned to remain at the office. Someone had to be present at the station at all times, and this time, it had been his turn. It wasn't something he particularly enjoyed doing, but it was a necessity of duty, and as with all things that were a part of his duty, Javert accepted it without question.

"You seem to be making a habit of interrupting my work, Monsieur le Maire." Though the station was empty except for the two of them, he refrained from using the ex-convict's true name out of consideration. "I thought we had agreed that things were settled between us." He didn't bother to look up from his papers. "And before you go thanking me for rescuing Cosette, might I remind you that as an officer of the law, I would have been expected to assist _any_ child in such a predicament—particularly if she were the mayor's daughter. I did nothing more than what was required of me, and you flatter yourself if you think otherwise." He glanced up. "You may leave now."

Valjean hesitated. "Javert…I owe you my life."

"A debt repaid. We've discussed this before."

"Not just the fact that I am _alive_," he clarified, "but that I am _living_." He removed his hat. "That being said, I have no right to ask anything of you, but what I ask, I do not ask for myself."

"Always the martyr," Javert sneered.

He pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his coat and handed it to the inspector.

"What is this?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's from Cosette. She asked me to give it to you. I don't know what's on it. She said she wanted it to be a surprise." He started to leave but paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. "Javert…I don't know if you know what it's like to have a family, but Cosette…she means the world to me…and whether or not you realize it, _you_ mean the world to her."

Javert snorted. "No, monsieur, I believe you are mistaken. That honor belongs to you."

"In the sense that I am her father, yes. But you are her dearest friend…at least, in her mind." He looked Javert directly in the eye. "I know that you take your duty to protect the law very seriously…. Please…don't think that the duty of protecting a child's faith in you is any less important."

With that, he replaced his hat and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Javert considered the slip of paper in his hand for a moment. It had been folded into a neat little square—down once horizontally, then again vertically so that when laid flat, it formed a little "v," like a book whose binding was a little too tight preventing it from closing fully. On the front, his name was written in an unsteady, childlike hand. He flicked it open with his thumb.

There were a few letters that were backwards or a little crooked, and the spelling was a little off, but overall, it was better than many adults' writing he had seen. Javert himself hadn't learned his letters until later in life, getting by as best he could until it had become a necessity for work. He was self-taught, and as a result, he sometimes had difficulty with the greater intricacies of writing. Even now, reading was a chore, and he struggled with certain parts of the paperwork he was required to fill out from time to time—though he'd never let his superiors know. But in this case, the message was clear. There were only four words on the paper—"Thank you"—and at the bottom, beneath a picture of two stick figures holding hands—the names "Javert" and "Cosette."

Javert crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, intending to throw it out, when a flash of yellow peeking out from between the pages of a thick book in his bottom desk drawer caught his eye. Slowly, he removed the book from the drawer and opened it up to the page that was marked. The book itself looked like new, the pages still as white and crisp as they had been on the day that he had purchased it. In fact, he only pulled it out once or twice a year, and even then it proved to be more of a required accessory than something he actually intended to read. The words at the top of the page caught his eye.

"But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea." [1]

After a moment's hesitation, Javert smoothed out the paper, laying it carefully—almost reverently—between the pages of the bible beside the pressed yellow daffodil. Then he closed the book, returned it to the drawer, and locked all the secrets away.

[1] Matthew 18:6


	7. How Monsieur May Become Uncle

**Author's Note: Okay, I wasn't sure about last chapter, but I think this one will make up for it. :) I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope you guys like it. There is some MAJOR foreshadowing going on here, by the way, so pay attention because it will be important.**

**Chapter Seven: How Monsieur May Become Uncle**

Cosette took her father's hand as they exited the church. "Oh, Papa, can't we walk home instead of taking a carriage? It's so lovely outside."

Valjean frowned. "Cosette, your ankle—"

"It's fine, Papa. It doesn't hurt much anymore." She gave a pleading, doe-eyed pout. "_Please_…."

It had been nearly three weeks since she'd sprained her ankle, and although she still walked with a bit of a limp, it was almost healed. She had been confined to the bed for the majority of the time, Valjean doing his best to keep her entertained by reading her stories and encouraging her to improve her own reading and writing skills. But for an active child like Cosette—who had always been kept busy regardless of injuries in her time with the Thénardiers—it was difficult to sit still for a few _hours_, much less several _days_, without growing restless. Today had been the first day he'd allowed her out of the house for any extended period of time, and she was thoroughly enjoying it.

He gave in. "Alright." He smiled. "But take it easy. If your ankle starts to hurt, then—"

He felt two little arms wrap around his legs.

"Oh, thank you, Papa! I'll be careful! I promise!"

Valjean paused to address the priest with a polite nod. "Good day to you, Father."

The priest returned the gesture. "Good day, Monsieur le Maire." He stooped to peek around at the little girl clinging to the mayor's side. "And good to see you're doing better, Mademoiselle Cosette. You mind your father and stay off that foot if it bothers you, hmm?"

Cosette nodded shyly.

The priest smiled. "Good."

Cosette frowned as they stepped out into the street. "Papa…why do we call the priest 'father'? I thought God was called 'the Father.' And then…you are my father too. I don't understand…."

"Cosette, the church is like one big family. Not just our church but all churches everywhere. God is called 'the Father' because He created and loves us all—even those who do not believe. Every person on this earth is God's child in that sense, though some of them have gone astray. Because the priest is God's representative—the leader of the church—we call him 'father,' too. You see, Cosette, in God's eyes, we are all brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles…. We are to take care of each other, to love each other…just as a real family would. Does that make sense?"

Cosette nodded. "I think so…." She hesitated. "But…"

"Yes?"

"What are aunts and uncles?"

The question took him somewhat off guard. Having grown up as part of a rather large family himself, Valjean sometimes forgot that, although life had been hard in Faverolles, he'd still been more fortunate than most in that he'd had people who cared about him. It had been difficult enough living a peasant's life even _with_ a loving family. He couldn't imagine having to face such hardships alone. That some people _did_ troubled him greatly; that his daughter had once been among those unfortunate souls quite nearly broke his heart.

"They are the siblings of your parents," he explained. "If your father or mother has a sister, she is called an 'aunt.' If they have a brother, he is called an 'uncle.'"

Cosette considered this new information. "Do I have any aunts or uncles, Papa?"

"I do not know if your mother had any siblings, Cosette."

"What about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Valjean smiled sadly. "Once, long ago, I did. But I do not know what has become of them."

She paused. "Do you miss them?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But the church is my family now." He knelt down to give her a kiss, pausing to brush a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "And with God as my Father and you as my daughter, I don't think I could possibly ask for a better family."

Cosette beamed. And for just a fraction of a second, Valjean could have sworn he saw a glimpse of heaven's light reflected in her eyes.

xxxx

Ever since what had been publicly labeled as "the Fantine incident," there had been whispers concerning the father of the child. Some claimed he was a rich aristocrat who had been passing through town—a young student who had wooed the once beautiful maiden and stolen away her youth. Others said he was one of the many men she'd taken into her bed—there was no way of knowing who he was, as in all likelihood, the mother herself hadn't a clue. When Mayor Madeleine had stepped in, it had caused an uproar—a few going so far as to suggest that he himself was the girl's biological father, for who else would nurse a dying prostitute as though she were a queen and take in her orphaned child? But then, the mayor had always been a good-hearted sort of man, helping those who were in need even when they did not deserve it or could not repay him. Old Man Fauchelevent, in particular, was outraged by the slander, fiercely defending his savior's reputation with his own case as proof of the man's generosity…and as a whole, the town had generally agreed with him. Monsieur Madeleine was well-liked among the people, and as a rumor can only survive as long as there is malicious intent, it gradually fizzled out. But now there was a new candidate for the gossip.

Javert had never been what one would consider a popular man. Though easily recognized throughout the town, Javert found that he could generally classify his acquaintances into one of two categories—those who despised him because of his job, and those who despised him because of his race. Those who did not assimilate into his system generally held no opinion of him at all except that he was a dour old workaholic who kept to himself and had neither the time nor the desire for any form of social interaction. In reality, very few people knew much of anything about his personal life. It was said that his mother was a gypsy—a rumor corroborated by the policeman's olive-tinged skin that was much too dark for any respectable Frenchman. That he had been born on the floor of a prison cell, the son of a convict, was a fact known only to those members of the police force who had seen his official records…but people talked. Trying to keep a secret among the police was like trying to hide a carcass from a pack of hungry wolves; nothing stayed dead and buried for long. It was their job to sniff out the truth, and inevitably the past was dug up, drug out, and paraded around for all to see, the tattered remains of his dignity decaying before their very eyes.

But that was old news. And beyond his rather humble origins, there was really very little to be said. He had no wife, kept no mistresses, and never drank more than one glass of wine. He did not smoke—though he had been known to take the occasional pinch of snuff—never disrespected his superiors, never complained about the odd hours he was often assigned…. And he _never_ broke the law. All in all, he was a model citizen, if a bit cynical and cold. In fact, though there were plenty of people who disliked him, there was hardly any fuel for rumors. So when he suddenly started to show interest in the little orphan girl of the prostitute he had arrested, people immediately took notice.

And now someone recalled the way that she had looked at him imploringly, the way she'd kissed the hem of his coat with all the tenderness of a lover and washed the singe marks with the tears that fell from her blue eyes. They recalled the way that she had taken his hand and laid it upon her chest just above her heart, paralyzing the untouchable inspector the moment his fingers brushed against her skin. And the whispers spread like wildfire.

Why Javert—who had never been fond of people in general, much less children—would care about the illegitimate child of a whore made absolutely no sense at all, unless…. Unless, of course, the child was _his_! Now it all made sense, they said. The arrest was just a ploy—an excuse for him to see his lover off the streets; at least in jail she would earn a salary without selling her body and have a roof over her head.

And then, there was the issue with the mayor…. It was no secret that Javert disliked the man. Why or how anyone could possibly _not_ like Monsieur Madeleine was beyond their comprehension, but then again, Javert had always been a bit of mystery to them. Before Fantine had become a part of the equation, the two men had had relatively few interactions of any importance…and on those few occasions when they _had_ been forced to work in conjunction with one another, there had always been a tense, uncomfortable air between them—as if one of them were hiding a secret that the other man knew. Mayor Madeleine's insistence that the woman be taken to the hospital rather than the jail—an act which had publicly humiliated the inspector—would seem to have been the breaking point, the final straw which _should_ have given Javert good reason to hate the mayor if he hadn't had one before. But then the mayor had taken in the child. And while they had not become the best of friends overnight, their relationship had become considerably less strained. The incorruptible inspector's dirty little secret, it seemed, was finally coming to light, and the mayor—being the good-natured fellow that he was—was doing everything within his power to help prevent any degradation from coming to his name by claiming the child as his own, thus freeing the inspector of any moral or legal obligations. This, of course, had the effect of making Madeleine appear even _more_ saintly in their eyes while making Javert look like a lying, whoring, poor excuse of a man who would not even take the responsibility of claiming his own daughter. But then…what could one expect of a gypsy?

Javert, of course, was no fool. It was not that he wasn't _aware_ of the gossip so much as that he'd simply grown so accustomed to it that he'd learned to acknowledge its presence without actually hearing the words that were being spoken. There had always been whispers behind his back, so the awkward stares and disapproving glances he received that Sunday morning upon his return home from work were unsurprising. What _was_ surprising was the other name being slandered right along with his.

Javert had heard the word 'prostitute' associated with his name for so long that he no longer thought anything of it; whether or not his mother _had_, in fact, been one, he didn't know, but beautiful gypsy women were not known for their modesty, so he supposed it was a possibility. Neither did he consider it odd to hear Fantine's name in the conversation—after the mayor's rather vocal disagreement with him concerning the penalty for her actions, it was no wonder people had begun talking. But that had been _months_ ago—before Valjean had stopped the bullet intended for _his_ heart, before a child's soft chastisement had pruned away the dead wood of his heart and cut into the green—into the quick, before he'd started questioning everything he had ever believed to be good and noble and right….

Javert frowned. That child had ruined everything. Valjean's incapacitation had provided him with just the evidence he'd needed to apprehend the criminal and return him to justice…. Except that now—thanks to her—he wasn't so certain that the law's interpretation of justice was, well…just. Javert wanted to hate her for that. And yet, somehow, he found that he could not. Children, he had found in his rather limited experience, were often incredibly blunt when it came to the truth, which often made them appear unintentionally cruel and unwittingly wise beyond their years. Cosette was no exception, and though he was loathe to admit it, he sometimes wondered if she hadn't been teaching _him_ about the facts of life when he'd thought to be instructing her.

Cosette…. That was the name that drew his attention. Though everyone knew that she was not Monsieur Madeleine's biological daughter, she was still the mayor's child, and as such, she _should_ have been treated with respect. Any affront to her was—indirectly—an insult to the mayor. Following that line of thought, an insult hurled at the mayor was mud thrown up in the face of authority. And that was something that Javert simply would not stand for.

To make matters worse, the most vocal of the slanderers appeared to be a fellow officer. Javert noticed a group of his subordinates gathered on a street corner where one of them—a

man by the name of Pierre Moreau—had apparently attracted a bit of a crowd, his gesticulations growing wilder by the minute as the story progressed. Javert caught a snatch of the conversation as he walked by.

"…And to think, he's been fooling us all this time!"

"I guess now we know why he likes the night shifts, eh? Getting a little extra on the side there without telling us…." Moreau grinned. "Not that I blame him. Must have been pretty desperate to go with that ugly little wretch!"

"I _knew_ it! No one's _that_ perfect."

"What about Monsieur le Maire?"

"Madeleine?" Moreau laughed. "Oh, he has his faults, too, I'm sure—like giving away so much he's going to go bankrupt." He shook his head. "He's an oddball, that one—odd, but harmless. And taking in that girl, Cosette…."

"I thought it was very kind of him," one of the younger men chimed in. "After all, Javert _did_ save his life."

"He wouldn't have _had_ to save his life if Madeleine hadn't jumped in front of that gun," Moreau frowned. "Should have let the old wolf die, if you ask me," he said, crossing his arms. "Be better off without him, anyway, I say. _I _sure wouldn't take a bullet for him." The officer threw up his hands in dismay. "And then he goes and pulls a stunt like this! Not even so much as a 'thank you, Monsieur le Maire'! Nothing! Just goes on letting him take care of his little illegitimate brat! I tell you, if the inspector was here right now, I'd—"

A dark shadow fell over the crowd, causing a few eavesdropping street urchins to scatter. Moreau froze.

"Oh, please," Javert gestured with a wave of the hand, "don't stop on my account. I'm certain I would be very interested to hear what you have to say."

"M-monsieur l'Inspeteur…I-I beg your pardon!"

"No, I believe I should I should beg _yours_ for interrupting." Though outwardly he showed a calm demeanor, there was the look of a hungry lion in his eyes. "Seeing as though you have no problem shouting your message to the world from the streets, I'm sure whatever it is you have to say, you won't mind saying it to my face." The silver eyes smoldered. "_Please_, do continue."

"P-please, monsieur," the young officer who had seemed reluctant to take part in the conversation looked timidly up at Javert, putting a hand on Moreau's shoulder. "He didn't mean anything by it."

Moreau shoved him off. "Stay out of this, Ledeaux!" He glared up at the inspector. "I meant every word I said."

Javert glowered. "Then perhaps you won't mind repeating them."

Straightening up to his full height—which was a good two heads shorter than Javert—the offending officer met his gaze, suddenly bold. "Gladly…if you can explain _this_."

He held up a crinkled piece of paper. Javert recognized it even before he saw the familiar childish handwriting on it.

His voice was low, dangerous. "Where did you get that?"

He reached for the paper, only to have Moreau snatch it away.

"So you admit the child is yours?"

"YOU WENT THROUGH _MY DESK?!_"

"That doesn't answer my question, _inspector_."

"I ought to have you arrested for violation of personal privacy without a warrant."

"Of course," he said nonchalantly. "I'm sure the commissaire would be _delighted_ to discover _your_ little secret, Javert."

Javert spoke through clenched teeth. "You are my subordinate, and I _order _you to return the items you have stolen from my desk _immediately_."

"That sounded a like a confession to me. Wouldn't you agree, Ledeux?"

"But…Moreau…" Ledeux whispered nervously, "he couldn't _possibly_ be her father…. You _know _that. I mean…."

Javert turned his attention to the newcomer. "Speak up, boy! Where I can _hear_ you!"

The young man shifted uncomfortably. "W-well, monsieur…It's just the girl…Cosette…well…she doesn't…. She doesn't look like you, sir."

Javert gave the boy a grave look. "I see." He turned to face Moreau. "Well, at least _one_ of you has enough of a brain to discern that. I would have thought it rather obvious." His eyes flickered back to the younger officer. "While I appreciate your defense of my cause, Ledeux, next time, if you have the gall to address the elephant in the room, then you should do so by name. Say what you mean." When there was no response, he continued. "Very well. If you will not say it, then I shall." He looked directly at Moreau. "I am _not_ the girl's father."

Ledeux looked apologetic. "I just…what I meant was…g-given your race you couldn't be her father because…."

Javert finished for him, bitterness sharp as a double-edged sword seeping through every word.

"Because not even a whore would lie with half-breed gypsy scum."

As he turned to leave, he did not notice that streets had suddenly gone silent…nor that a certain little girl and her father had been watching.

Moreau, looking a bit flustered, gave a polite bow as Valjean approached the group of officers. "Monsieur le Maire! I-I didn't realize... That is…I…er…."

His face was turning red, but he needn't have worried about attracting any more undue attention. The crowd had already begun to disperse, and the mayor wasn't looking at him, his eyes following the tall, dark figure as it disappeared among the throng.

Cosette tugged impatiently at her father's hand. "Papa…"

When he glanced down, she was looking forlornly in the direction that Javert had taken. She turned her bright blue eyes up to meet his face, a burning question in her gaze.

Valjean smiled gently and gave her a nod. "Go on." He watched her go, then turned his attention back to Moreau. "I believe," he said quietly, "that you owe the inspector…_and_ my daughter…an apology."

xxxx

Javert stormed through the streets with all the fury of hurricane, blindly shoving aside all those who dared to get in his way. And the moment he was out of sight, he ran. He had to get out of the square, out of the streets. He could escape the chains that bound him to Toulon, but he could not escape the prison of his own mind, could not outrun the memories came back in chaotic flashes of color and light—a leather pouch clutched in his hand, warm brown eyes and a woman's gentle smile, the cry of the gulls and the smell of the sea, alone…so alone... the sting of leather on his skin, bruises, laughing, jeering, wiping blood off with the tears he's sworn he'd never cry.

He ran until he was out of breath, stopping when he reached a small wooden bridge over a pond in the park. He latched onto the railing, nails digging deep into the wood to stop his hands from shaking. The blood was pounding in his ears, and he felt suddenly very lightheaded and weak, as if his legs would give way beneath him. He took several deep, shaky breaths, fighting for the first time in his adult life to retain his composure as he looked down at his reflection in the water.

Ironic, he thought, that he should end up here. Water had always held a strange fascination and fear for Javert. Vaguely, he remembered looking out over the harbor in Toulon, a shove, falling…. There was something else. Something he knew he was forgetting but could not—or _would_ _not_—remember.

There was a rustle in the bushes. "Monsieur Javert?"

Of course. Of course she had followed him. Of course she had heard. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. "_What?_" he asked curtly.

Cosette stepped out onto the bridge. Although she hadn't fully grasped the conversation that she'd overheard, she knew enough to know that it somehow involved her and that the other officers were not happy. She twisted her hands behind her back, looking down at her shoes ashamedly.

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble."

Javert was still angry. So very, _very_ angry…. Though he'd learned to somewhat control it over the years, he had a horrible temper, and he didn't want to risk letting that anger loose on Cosette when the girl had done nothing wrong. He sighed deeply.

"It wasn't your fault."

He felt a slight twinge of guilt for having referred to Fantine's profession in less than considerate terms but reassured himself with the knowledge that she probably didn't know what the word meant.

Relieved to discover that he was not upset with her, Cosette approached the place where he was standing and took a seat on the wooden planks beside him, letting her legs dangle through one of the gaps between the bars that supported the railing so that the tips of her toes were almost touching the water. For a while she simply sat quietly, plucking the heads off of flowers on the vine that wound its way around the railing and setting them adrift on the water's surface like tiny ships out at sea. Javert watched as one by one each was caught by the breeze and drifted away, surprisingly grateful for the girl's quiet company.

Suddenly, she looked up. "Why do they think you are my papa?"

The question caught him off guard. "It's…difficult to explain."

"Oh." She plucked another blossom and dropped it in. "Do you _want_ to be?"

"You already have a father," he answered.

"I know…but if I didn't…would you?"

"That's beside the point."

"I think you would be a good papa," she said. "But Papa says that because we're all God's children, we're really all family anyway." She paused. "I know I already have a papa…and I love him very much…but I don't have an uncle…so maybe you could be that…if you wanted…."

Javert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cosette, I don't think you understand—"

"Cosette!"

At the sound of Valjean's voice, they both looked up.

"Cosette! There you are!"

Cosette grinned. "Papa! You found us!"

Javert was slightly less thrilled about the prospect of being discovered, wondering just exactly _how long_ his former enemy had been listening. They shared a look—one that both men understood to mean that this was another one of those instances not to be spoken of—but exchanged no words.

Valjean knelt down and beckoned to his daughter, who he felt had done more than her fair share of walking for the day. "Come, Cosette. I think it's time we take our leave."

As he lifted the girl into his arms, she waved back to Javert over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Uncle!"

Valjean—though he surely heard it—made no comment. And Javert did not bother to correct her.


	8. Learning to Fall

**Chapter Eight: Learning to Fall**

Javert's hobbies were few and far between. With his schedule being what it was, he had very little free time and very little use for those idlers who had too much of it on their hands. He preferred to keep busy—to be useful—at all times. It has been said that an idle mind is the devil's workshop, but in Javert's case, it rather seemed to be God's playground; too much time to reflect revealed the questions lingering in the dark recesses of his mind—questions that he did not like because he could neither leave them open-ended nor accept the answers. As a result, in the limited amount of time he had between shifts when he was not working or sleeping, he typically kept himself occupied with some sort of menial task—cleaning the apartment, polishing his boots, organizing his meager personal belongings….

When he ran out of other things to do, he read. It was not a particularly enjoyable pastime—in fact, he rather disliked it, as it was difficult and often left him feeling frustrated when he did not understand a particular word or turn of phrase—but it was necessary, he felt, to be a learned man. Most people with his sort of background were illiterate, and he had seen firsthand how people who could not read were taken advantage of. If one could not read, he had to take the word of someone else regarding the terms of a written contract; he had to trust that the words of the landlord or the priest or the supposed "friend" were true. Javert trusted no one. Furthermore, the very fact that many had assumed that he _could not_ read had motivated him to learn; some people need encouragement to succeed—others need a challenge. Javert, of course, had accepted the challenge and thus resolved to read something other than his paperwork for at least an hour each week, and indeed, a good portion of his salary was spent on books of history, philosophy, science, and the literary classics which lined the shelves of his apartment. He was one of those rare people who wished to learn as much about the world as he possibly could simply because it was within his power to do so…. He had lived the first half of his life in ignorance; never again would he allow it to be so. But such an activity could hardly be called pleasant or relaxing, often causing more stress than it relieved as he stumbled through the words page after page. No, for the days when he felt especially frustrated and tense, there was only one remedy—riding.

Javert had learned to ride at an early age, the guards at the prison allowing him to tend the horses that were used to carry messages to the neighboring towns or haul in supplies. As a stable boy, he'd quickly found a companionship with the animals that he'd never felt among other human beings, their quiet nickers and gentle snorts when he'd produced a bag of oats a warm and welcome greeting compared to the guards' usual sniggering and heavy-handed blows. The hours he's spent grooming their coats and mucking out stalls were some of the happiest memories of his childhood; they were also some of the most painful. More than once he'd found himself huddled down in one of the stalls, shivering from cold and fear curled up in the hay or clinging to a warm velvet neck as he buried his face in the creature's mane to stifle the choking sobs stuck in his throat. The animals had understood him, a few of the crueler guards no more gentle in the touch of the whip to their flanks than in the touch of the cat to the backs of the convicts, and given enough time, Javert had learned to understand _them_, speaking softly to them in the whispered words of a language he no longer used. He had learned to read their expressions—every movement, every sound, every twitch of the muscles that rippled underneath their skin—so well, in fact, that he had eventually been asked to train several of the colts. The first time a horse had bucked underneath him, he'd felt a sting of betrayal, as if the animal had somehow taken the side of the guards and took pleasure in his pain. He'd spent nearly a week wallowing in his sorrowful convictions…until he'd realized that it had simply been_ afraid_ of its new duties—afraid of being expected to do something it wasn't certain it was capable of, afraid of all the men with whips, afraid of being separated from its mother and sent off to a new place, afraid of being alone…. Since then, he'd been bitten, kicked, and thrown more times than he cared to remember, but in the end, _his_ horses had always been the best behaved.

His current horse was a young Arabian/thoroughbred cross by the name of Magnifique. He was a dark bay—so dark that his deep mahogany coat shone nearly black even in the brightest sun—with the short attention span and even shorter temper characteristic of his dam's hot, exotic blood. Physically, however, he more closely resembled his sire, having inherited the thoroughbred's long legs and slightly less delicate build; at just a little more than seventeen hands, he towered over the other horses kept at the station, though this worked to Javert's advantage given his own impressive stature. As the only crossbreed at the station, the stallion was a bit of an anomaly among the herd, yet whether he was working or turned out to pasture, he always carried himself with pride, head and tail held high; long, dark locks streaming like a banner of liquid onyx when he ran. He was strong-willed but obedient—tamed but not broken—with a clever mind and a fiery spirit. Overall, the inspector thought with a hint of amusement, they were a rather good fit for each other, as much alike as he supposed two members of different species could be. Technically speaking, of course, Magnifique belonged to the police department, but Javert had been the one to train him, and every once in a while, when he wasn't needed for work, the inspector would take him out to the neighboring fields and ride.

xxxx

Javert kept a tight rein on the bit until they reached the middle of the field. It was a warm day in late June, the meadow a sea of yellow flowers as far as the eye could see. The sky was clear but for a few dark clouds on the horizon, the gentle breeze bringing with it the fresh smell of the coming rain. Near the center of the field, a single oak stood defiantly. As they approached, Javert loosened his grip and urged the horse into a run, the exhilarating feeling of the ground blurring beneath him as they tore across the field a brief moment of freedom.

He had been riding for nearly half an hour when he noticed that he had gained an audience. Pulling up beside the fence, he brought the bay to a skidding halt, leaping nimbly from his back almost before they reached a complete stop. He addressed the girl perched on the wooden fence.

"Mademoiselle Cosette."

She grinned. "Hello, Uncle."

Javert still had not grown used to being addressed in such familiar terms. By this point, he'd had several opportunities to correct her, but for some reason whenever he started to utter a reprimand he always found that words became lodged in his throat against his will. He was _not_, nor would he ever consent to be, a part of any family—particularly _his_ family. And yet, he was painfully aware that in some small way, his silence on the matter _was_ a form of consent whether he would admit to it or not. It frustrated him to no end. But this, he knew—like arresting Valjean—was something outside of his control. If Javert had gotten things his way, he would never have given a former convict the time of day, much less share a civilized conversation with him or his daughter; God, it seemed, had other plans.

Cosette hopped down off the fencepost. "I didn't know you could ride like that! It looks like such fun!" She approached the horse, who snorted at first, then began to sniff her curiously. She giggled. "What's his name?"

"Magnifique."

"He's _beautiful_," she whispered. "May I pet him?"

Javert gave a curt nod, and the horse, as if understanding the conversation, obligingly lowered his head that the girl might stroke him on the nose.

"Is he yours?" she asked curiously.

"Not officially. But I believe I ride him more than anyone else." He glanced up, frowning. "Where's your father?"

"At the market," she answered. "But he knows where I am," she added quickly. "We saw you out riding, and he said I could stay and watch as long as I didn't disturb you."

"I see."

Though the market was not far, Javert was rather surprised that the mayor would leave his daughter unsupervised on the outskirts of town. Then again, he supposed, _he_ was there, so she wasn't _technically_ alone. Perhaps that had been the plan all along. His frown deepened. That it had gotten to the point that Valjean automatically assumed the inspector would look after his daughter like some sort of nursemaid troubled him greatly. Not that he particularly minded Cosette's company…but it was a rather bold assumption on the mayor's part, and he did not wish to set a precedent for future circumstances by playing into the former convict's cleverly set trap.

Cosette sighed. "I wish I had a horse, but we've no place to put one."

"But you are being taught to ride, yes?"

She shook her head. "No…. I've never seen Papa ride before. I'm not sure if he knows how…. Anyway, I think he prefers a carriage."

The inspector's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "He's not hired you a tutor?"

She shrugged. "He's sending me to school soon when the new building is finished, but I don't think they teach things like riding there."

Javert shook his head. Though not of noble birth himself, he was well aware of the social expectations for one born into a higher class. Boys were expected to be well-versed in languages, mathematics, literature, and history as well as proficient in fencing and at least moderately good at playing the violin or the piano. A girl's education was a bit more basic with a heavier focus on the arts; if she did not possess the ability to read, sew, paint, and play a repertoire of musical instruments by the time her education was completed, she was not fit to be considered a lady. Members of the upper class of both sexes were expected to be able to ride. As the daughter of the mayor, Cosette's education _should_ have been that of an aristocrat, but Valjean, apparently, was ignorant of what that was supposed to include.

"Could _you_ teach me?" she asked.

Javert blinked. "What?"

"Could you teach me to ride?"

Javert did not immediately respond. If he was being completely honest with himself, Magnifique needed to be ridden more often than he currently was. Though he had never given lessons before, he had trained enough horses to know their behaviors and felt confident that, given the chance, he could successfully train a human as well. It would be a challenge, to be sure, but one that undeniably intrigued him. On the other hand, teaching Cosette would mean seeing more of Valjean—something that the inspector would have preferred to avoid—but then, ever since Cosette had made up her mind to befriend him, their increasingly frequent contact seemed inevitable anyway, so what was there to lose?

The trap, it seemed, had been set with better bait than he'd expected. Perhaps Valjean knew more about him than he realized…or perhaps he was simply going mad. Either way, it looked as though he would be losing this round. He sighed. If this was some sort of a test, he was failing it miserably.

"Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. Don't be late."

As he remounted the horse, there was a soft rumble of thunder in the distance. And Javert couldn't help but wonder if somewhere out there, God was laughing at him.

xxxx

Cosette nudged the great bay horse from a trot into a canter, the afternoon sunlight making his slick coat shimmer like burnished bronze. Javert stood by the fence, his back against the post, arms crossed over his chest, observing her every move with a critical eye while Valjean stood just outside the gate a few yards away, watching nervously with a mixture of fear and fatherly pride. Although the mayor was technically his superior and the girl's father, they had come to an agreement that Javert should have full control during the lessons and that Valjean would not interfere with his instruction. Despite being rather harsh in his reprimands, it was widely recognized that Javert was something of an expert in the field, and the former convict knew that he could not have hired a better tutor. Still, the thought of his little girl tumbling to the ground from the back of a horse at breakneck speed made him rather anxious, and he often found himself biting his lip to prevent from crying out when he thought she would fall. At first, he'd brushed it off, but after several weeks of enduring such worry, it was beginning to take its toll on his nerves, and he was starting to reconsider the arrangement.

Cosette pulled up short on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop, a cloud of dust in her wake. "How was that?" she asked, nearly as breathless as her mount.

"Better." Javert uncrossed his arms. "But you're still too tense."

"But you said—"

"I _said_ that you needed to correct your posture and sit up _straight_ not _stiff!_ The mast of a ship that is too rigid snaps in two at the first sign of a storm. It must be flexible—bend with the breeze—if the ship is to survive. The same is true of a horse and its rider. The way you are riding now is sloppy and jarring. Furthermore, it's uncomfortable for both you _and_ the horse. You must learn to move _with_ the animal—not against him. Stop being afraid of him. Horses may be large animals, but it is their natural instinct to flee from danger. They require a strong leader—someone firm who they feel they can trust. If you are nervous or unsure of yourself, he will become nervous as well. You are uncomfortable because you are dwelling on your mistakes and everything that could possibly go wrong, and you are overthinking it. Don't _think_—just _feel. _Try again."

Cosette huffed in annoyance but did as she was told.

Once she was out of earshot, Valjean released a sigh of his own. "Javert, are you sure this is a good idea? Perhaps she's just not ready to run."

"Or perhaps _you're_ not ready," Javert answered dryly. "It's not that she isn't _capable_ of better riding," he continued, "it's that she doesn't trust the horse—or herself, for that matter. Understandable, given her previous living conditions—but your doubting her certainly isn't helping. She's _your_ daughter, monsieur. The least you might do is have a bit of confidence in her."

Valjean was taken aback. That the man with a heart of ironwood—hard as granite, heavier than stone—should suddenly speak of the importance of _feeling_ and _trust_ came as a bit of a shock. To have known the man for nearly half his life, Valjean realized that he knew very little of the inspector on a personal level. Cosette's weekly riding sessions had given him the opportunity to catch a brief glimpse of the man beneath the uniform—something he found rather intriguing. Before, he had viewed Javert and the law as inseparable entities; the man was a mere extension of some unseen government agency's attempt at social justice, a machine that simply did as it was told, like a wind-up toy soldier that walked in whatever direction it was set until it ran off the edge of the table. But now he began to see something more, something complex—a gear that turned on its own, a cog that spun out of time with the rest. He was human, flawed…just like any other man, capable of anger and fear and doubt…and sometimes even compassion. The spark of humanity was dim, but it was there—a brightly glowing ember that had not quite faded to ash. It was there in his eyes when he took the reins, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they stroked the dark mane, the animal affording him an outlet for all the affections he was too afraid to shower on another human being. Valjean supposed that he had seen the inspector ride before, but he had never noticed the difference that came over him, the vulnerability that showed through when he thought no one was watching. Perhaps it was because he hadn't been looking for it then. Or perhaps it was that Javert had never allowed himself to spend enough time in the company of others to let them see anything more than image he chose to project.

"Good!" Javert shouted as Cosette neared the old oak. "Now bring him back. That's it!"

They rounded the tree in seconds, Magnifique flying across the field with all the grace of a Pegasus, hooves barely touching the ground. But as they emerged from the other side, a large fallen branch lay in the way. What happened in the next five seconds was a blur, but to Cosette and the two men who were watching, it felt as though time had momentarily slowed. Magnifique made to jump over the log, but Cosette, in a moment of panic, pulled hard on the reins, causing him to stop short as they cleared the branch, rearing in confusion and sending Cosette sailing in one direction as he took off in another. Both men immediately reacted, Javert running after the horse while Valjean ran to Cosette. Javert, being the younger and closer of the two, arrived first, standing his ground as Magnifique came barreling toward him. He raised his arms.

"Whoa! Easy!"

The horse came to an abrupt halt, snorting fearfully, eyes wide with terror as Javert tried to calm him.

"Easy…" He took hold of the reins and began stroking the horse on the nose, letting out a sigh of relief when he spotted Cosette on the ground, out of breath but looking otherwise unharmed. "There." He turned to the girl. "Are you hurt?"

Cosette shook her head slowly. She did not say a word, but the look of horror in her eyes spoke volumes. She was terrified, shocked, frustrated with her own incompetence, and overwhelmed by the treachery of a creature she'd thought devoid of malice and believed to be her friend…. She looked as though she was going to cry.

"Alright. Get up. We'll try again."

Valjean came running up and was instantly at her side. "Cosette! Cosette, are you alright?!"

She looked down, a few of the tears escaping, ashamed that she was letting her instructor down. "Y-yes, Papa. I'm fine."

Valjean gently reached for her arm. "Come, Cosette," he said gently. He looked pointedly at Javert. "I think that's enough for today."

"_Not _until she gets back on."

"Javert…" he warned.

"No!" He whirled on his opponent. "_I_ am the instructor. We do things _my _way." He turned back to Cosette. "Now get back up on that horse and try again."

Valjean gave him a stern glance. "Javert, I am not paying you to frighten the poor child out of her mind!"

"You are not _paying_ me at all, _Monsieur le Maire_," he sneered. "As I'm sure you will recall, the only conditions I had were that Cosette repay my effort by exercising and caring for the horse when I cannot—something that she cannot do if she never completes her training—and that _you_ would neither question my methods nor prevent me from doing as I see fit—something which you are currently doing. Therefore, I must most _respectfully_ request that you stay out of my way."

Cosette looked up. "But, Uncle, I'm scared…."

"And you always _will be_ if you don't do something about that fear _right now_." He sighed. "Falling is not failing. And being afraid does not make you a coward. The only true failures and cowards are those who refuse to get back on the horse."

Cosette lowered her eyes. "That's easy for you to say." She bowed her head. "You're not scared of anything…."

Javert blinked in surprise. If the girl had but known the way his heart had leapt in his chest when she'd lost control of the horse, he doubted she would have made such a statement. If that feeling wasn't raw, unadulterated fear, he didn't know what was…and the fact that he was feeling _anything_ _at all_ frightened him even more. He frowned.

"Nevertheless…" he said softly, "you cannot allow fear to control your life. Life is like that—you fall down, you dust yourself off, you pick yourself up and you try again…or you stay on that ground and let everyone else walk all over you. Now are you going to get back on, or are you just wasting my time?"

Cosette looked down again but not before he caught a flash of something in her eyes. He could not name the emotion, but he knew what it was—the look of someone who has been a disappointment too many times, the look of one sick with the knowledge of their failure, disgusted with themselves…angry, humiliated, but unwilling to admit defeat—determined to succeed and daring the accuser to prove them wrong. He knew what the look meant because it was a common expression of his own….

After a moment of silence, he gave a frustrated sigh. "Alright. Very well. Give up. But I'm afraid you will have to find a new instructor. I refuse to teach those who are not willing to at least _try_." He turned, muttering to himself, not even bothering to lead Magnifique as he walked away, leaving Cosette on the ground and Valjean looking after him with a bewildered expression.

Moments later, he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching and the mayor's last minute cry of warning, giving him just enough time to duck as Cosette blew past him, clearing the fence in a single, flawless jump without even slowing down. When she reached the other side, she brought the horse back around, beaming with a triumphant grin.

Javert did his best to conceal his own satisfied smirk as he drew a silver box from his pocket and took a pinch of snuff. He was extremely pleased with himself…and truth be told, he was rather proud of Cosette.


	9. Drowning in the Memories of the Past

**Chapter Nine: Drowning in the Memories of the Past**

Javert rarely took day shifts. He preferred the quiet and mystery of the night to the routine hustle and bustle that went on during the day. This worked out well, as most of his fellow officers did not particularly enjoy the graveyard shift and thought that they were getting the better end of the bargain by having him take on the jobs that no one else wanted. Of course, every now and then, something would come up—someone's schedule would change, a freak accident occurred, or someone wanted time off from work. This, of course, meant that everyone else's schedule had to be altered to ensure that someone was always on duty. Most recently, a young officer by the name of Perrot—who was something of an understudy to Javert—had approached the inspector with the request to rearrange his schedule so that he might be with his wife when she gave birth to their first child. A beanpole of a man with shaggy blonde hair and a thin mustache, Perrot somewhat resembled a lanky alley cat and was every bit as scrappy. He was a hard worker—a former aristocrat who'd cut his ties with a privileged family to marry a servant girl. While he might have used his father's name to find a cushy job as a high-ranking officer in the military, he'd chosen instead to work his way up from the bottom, just like everyone else, and as a result, he was one of the few men on the force Javert truly respected as an individual. Naturally, when Perrot made his request, offering to work a double shift to make up for lost time, Javert had congratulated him and agreed to take his place for the afternoon, passing on his best wishes to the lady and the child. Then he'd gone about his day, resolving to find Cosette after school and inform her that the day's riding lesson would have to be postponed.

He hadn't seen much of the girl lately, her attendance at the newly built school taking up most of her time and offering her the possibility of new friends who were much closer to her in age and social standing than he would ever be. Sometimes he wondered what would happen when she no longer needed his tutelage and the riding lessons stopped…and it occurred to him that if she were to slip quietly back out of his life, he would genuinely miss the company.

While Valjean walked Cosette home most days, on the days she had lessons, she typically met Javert at the stables, grooming Magnifique while she waited and sneaking him the occasional apple or carrot when she thought the inspector wasn't looking. Valjean would join them later, watching quietly from outside the gate until their work was done and Cosette was ready to go home. Javert, of course, was very strict when it came to being on time, and Cosette had yet to disappoint him, generally beating him there by nearly half an hour, as the school was much closer to the station than his apartment was. So he was rather surprised when he arrived not quite ten minutes before the appointed meeting time and she was nowhere to be found. When his watch indicated that it was nearly five minutes _after_ her lessons should have begun and she still had not shown up, he began to worry. Never being one to waste time and with only a few minutes to spare before he was officially on duty, Javert snapped the pocket watch closed and decided to begin making his rounds, hoping that perhaps he'd discover the girl's whereabouts while on patrol.

xxxx

Cosette had had a rather difficult time learning to fit in at school. The first day, she had been excited, anxious about the prospect of making new friends and eager to learn new things…until she'd realized that her Papa would not be attending class with her. She'd latched on to his legs, then, with a ferocity Valjean hadn't realized she was capable of, refusing to let go, terrified of being left behind with a room full of strangers, remembering all too well her time with the Thénardiers and fearing it would happen again. Valjean, of course, had eventually peeled her off, wiped her tears, and left her with a kiss and a promise to return. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, and each time he left her again, it broke his old heart a little more.

Since that day, she'd grown a bit bolder, her confidence gradually restored as she came to realize that the mayor was as good as his word. Every day, she'd find him waiting by the door, sometimes sitting on a bench with an open bible on his lap, others quietly staring off into space with fresh tearstains on his cheeks. She had asked once what had upset him only to have him reassure her that he was fine. She didn't quite believe him, but she didn't know what else to say, and so she'd let the subject drop, making certain to greet him with a hug and an 'I love you' each day after class. Eventually, she'd gotten comfortable enough to request walking as far as the station alone on the days she would ride, as it made little sense for him to walk all the way past the field where she trained and back again when Javert could just as easily walk her there with Magnifique. Valjean had been hesitant at first, but the school was within sight of the station, and as strange as it was to admit, he trusted Javert enough to know that he would keep her safe.

xxxx

Cosette bit her lip as she surveyed the group of girls who had gathered by her side. The teacher had come down with a sore throat and so ended class an hour earlier than usual, leaving the children to their own devices for the afternoon. Most of them had walked back home or run off to make some mischief, but Cosette and a few of the others had remained, wandering back to the little park behind the schoolhouse where they often ate lunch and took their recess. It had started out innocent enough, tossing pebbles into the pond and counting to see whose rock could make the most ripples, but the children had quickly grown bored with the game and soon began looking for better, more exciting ways to spend their extra time. Then one of the girls had dared the others to cross the bridge, walking the narrow handrail like a tightrope, and one after another they had accepted the challenge. A girl called Angelique who was about a year older than Cosette had been the first one to cross, followed by her younger sister, Marie. Only three others remained—Evangeline, Marguerite, and Cosette.

"Come on, Cosette!" Angelique called from across the pond. "You can do it!"

"I don't know…" she hesitated. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"_I _did it," Marie boasted. "And if _I_ did it, then I know _you_ can!"

"But I don't know how to swim!"

"You'll be _fine_," Marguerite assured her. "Besides, the pond's not all that deep. Look." She hopped up onto the railing and began tiptoeing her way across, arms held out to the side to keep her balance until she reached the other side. She jumped off, throwing a glance back over her shoulder. "It's easy! See?"

"Er…Maybe Cosette's right," Evangeline interrupted. "I don't think we should be doing this…. What if someone gets hurt?"

"_Come on!_ It's just water…."

Cosette frowned, looking from one friend to the other, Angelique, Marie, and Marguerite all smiling encouragingly while Evangeline looked as though she'd rather play jump rope using a snake than take a step up on the rail. She squeezed the younger girl's hand reassuringly.

"I'll go first," Cosette told her. "Then, when I come back, we can cross over together, alright?"

The girl nodded hesitantly, and Cosette put on her bravest smile. Since her fall from the horse, she'd grown a bit more confident in facing her fears, and if she could get back up on a horse who'd thrown her off, she wasn't about to let a little water stop her!

Slowly, she hoisted herself up onto the railing and began putting one foot in front of the other, each carefully measured step a little surer than the last. When she reached the middle of the bridge, the wood creaked a bit under her weight. In that brief moment of distraction, she lost her footing…and fell headfirst into the pond.

xxxx

Javert hadn't been on patrol for long when a commotion from behind the schoolyard caught his attention. Before he'd even gotten the chance to investigate, two young girls came running out.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Come quickly!"

"Please, there's no time to explain! It's our friend, Cosette! She's in trouble!"

Whether they recognized him as an officer or simply grabbed the first adult they'd seen, he didn't know, but at Cosette's name, he immediately followed suit. When he rounded the corner of the schoolhouse, what he saw made his heart stop. Cosette was in the center of the pond—the same pond she'd carelessly tossed flowers into as she'd sat with him on the bridge—her little blonde head bobbing up and down, dipping underneath the surface as she fought to keep her head above the water.

"_UNCLE!_" she screamed between breaths. "Uncle, _help me!_"

Javert froze.

There were very few things that the inspector feared. As a child, he had learned that to fear was to openly display weakness, and given the chance, men would exploit that weakness to the fullest extent. And he had learned—as with every other emotion—to keep it bottled up inside, buried somewhere deep amid the shattered remnants of a thing called hope and the shards of broken dreams so that to dig those old fears up again, one risked lacerations that cut deeper and bled more than the original wound. Memories crashed over him like a tidal wave—a cliff overlooking the sea, the ground giving way beneath his feet, a split second of weightlessness before the sickening sensation of falling set in, reaching for a hand or a branch or the ground or _anything_ and feeling nothing but thin air slip between his fingers. Water. Water _everywhere_. No sky, no ground, nothing to hold onto, not knowing which way was up. Complete and utter helplessness. Gasping, choking. Water in his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He couldn't _breathe_, couldn't _think_. And always the impenetrable darkness, always being left alone….

Javert was in a state of paralysis. The nightmares still came from time to time, but this was not a vision from which he could escape. He felt as if a lead weight had been laid upon his chest, pinning him to the ground. Cosette was drowning, and he could do nothing but stare in abject horror and watch the tragedy unfold. She was screaming his name at the top of her lungs, and he was standing there stupidly like a statue, unable to move. Then, for the tiniest fraction of a second, their eyes met…and it was over.

When at last her head disappeared beneath the surface, he shook himself, as if waking from a terrible dream, and ran onto the bridge. Throwing his hat and coat aside, he swung his legs up over the railing and jumped in, the cold water enveloping him in a familiar, fatal embrace. It was not that he _couldn't_ swim, per se, but he had never been very good at it, and he hadn't been expecting the innocent-looking little pond to be so deep that even _he_ couldn't reach the bottom. He felt the panic rising.

_Oh, God, not again! PLEASE, not again!_

He struck out, blindly groping in the dark until his hand found Cosette's arm. He jerked her upwards, latching onto the side of the bridge the moment his head broke the surface, coughing and sputtering as he tried to spit out some of the water that he'd swallowed. When he finally felt that he could breathe again, he looked up to the shore where his eyes landed on a newcomer amidst the frightened group of girls—Valjean. There was a hushed whisper as Javert emerged from the pond, the girls parting quietly to the side as he carried the girl to her father, her fragile form suddenly feeling very heavy. The mayor slowly stepped forward, his face whiter than the streaks of silver in his graying hair as he stared at the limp little body he gathered into his arms. Long strands of blonde hair that had come loose from her braid lay plastered against her forehead. Her eyes were mercifully closed, her parted lips giving the impression that she was sleeping. She was not breathing.

"No…" he whispered.

Javert had never heard so much feeling in a single syllable.

"NO!" he roared.

Valjean dropped to his knees, large hands forcefully pressing the girl's chest to pump the water from her lungs.

"_Breathe_, Cosette! BREATHE!"

There was a crazed look in his eyes, a mania of sorts. He was holding onto hope that was not there, grasping for the wind.

"Monsieur le Maire…" Javert started. "Monsieur le Maire, _please_…."

The girls were becoming upset.

Javert put a firm hand on his shoulder. "_Valjean_," he hissed in his ear so that only the mayor could hear.

It was the first time he'd addressed the ex-convict using his given name in a long time, and it had the intended effect. The mayor stopped struggling, his broad shoulders slumping forward, as if beneath the weight of a great burden he had accepted. He looked up, helpless, and Javert caught his eye.

The inspector shook his head. "It's_ too late_," he said quietly. "We're too late."

One by one, the girls slipped away, leaving the two men alone with their grief.

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Valjean…" he whispered.

"You did all that you could," he responded without looking up. "Thank you…." Javert didn't miss the waver in his voice. "For returning my daughter to me."

A strange sound, somewhere between a gasp and a shudder, shook the mayor's frame. Javert bowed his head and respectfully turned away, leaving the mayor to weep over his daughter as he quietly collected his things from the bridge and walked back out into the streets.

xxxx

Javert sat at his desk, staring blankly at the form in front of him.

Name: Cosette Madeleine

Age: Approximately eight and one-half

Cause of Death:….

He hesitated.

He _hesitated. _And that one split second of hesitation had cost a life. He had sworn to protect the innocent, and he had failed…all because of a moment of irrational fear.

He slammed his fists down on the desk and shoved his chair back violently, wood scraping against the floor. Then he stood, shrugged on his coat, and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

xxxx

A knock on the door drew the mayor downstairs. When he opened it, he found Javert standing in the doorway, hat in hand, looking terribly weary and even more devoid of emotion than usual—almost to the point of being numb.

Valjean looked surprised. "Javert! What are you doing here? It's after midnight…."

"Monsieur, I previously requested that you dismiss me for failing in my duty, and you denied me that right. Now I ask that you will consider it again. I have my letter of resignation ready if you should refuse to press charges against me."

The mayor frowned. "Charges? What—? I don't understand…."

"Perhaps you will when you know the truth." He glanced briefly over his shoulder. "May I come inside?"

Valjean obligingly stepped to the side, closing the door behind the inspector, who sank into the sofa as if his legs would no longer support him. "The reason that we were too late…that _I _was too late…was because I did not act immediately."

"But it _wasn't_ too late," Valjean insisted. "You were _wrong_." The mayor smiled gently. "You got there just in time."

Javert looked up, incredulous. "She lives?"

Valjean nodded. "After you left, she started coughing up a lot of water. She felt ill for the remainder of the day, but I think she's going to be alright. She is resting upstairs now. She was asking for you…."

Javert let out a sigh that almost sounded like a cough. He had never been so relieved about being proven _wrong_ about something in his entire life. "Thank God."

Valjean raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"I don't." He glared. "I don't believe in saintly convicts, either, but that doesn't appear to stop you from trying to convert me."

Valjean rolled his eyes, surprised at how easy it was to hold a conversation with a man he'd once feared and hated. He took a seat on the other end of the couch, attempting to show the inspector that he needn't consider him a threat without making the man unduly uncomfortable.

He stared at the hearth, devoid of a fire for the time being, and clasped his hands in his lap. "Javert...may I ask you a question?"

The inspector shrugged. "It is _your _home, monsieur. You may do as you as you please."

Valjean sighed. "You came here, it would seem, under the impression that you owed me some sort of apology or confession…. As it is, Cosette is unharmed, and therefore, the point is moot…. I will not press you to explain yourself, but I _am_ rather curious as to why you would hesitate when you knew she was in danger."

It was Javert's turn to sigh again. He did not answer immediately but seemed to take a moment to collect his thoughts. His eyes were vacant, distant…as though he was looking through a portal back in time.

"Do you remember the docks at Toulon? The cliff that overlooked the sea?"

The question was rhetorical, of course, but the former convict nodded anyway.

"I wonder…while you were there, do you ever remember someone pulling a boy from the water?"

Valjean frowned, slowly understanding. "A gypsy boy?"

Javert sneered. "Yes."

"Yes…. Yes, I remember it well." He paused. "I was the one who jumped in after him."

"You? _That was you?!_"

Javert started to laugh, that horrible, silent laugh that now bordered on hysteria. He brushed a tear from his eye that Valjean wasn't entirely certain was a result of the laughing. When he'd caught his breath, he shook his head.

"It figures. If your God _does_ exist, Valjean, He's got one hell of a sense of humor. Rather a bit too much like my own, I might add."

The mayor gave a disapproving frown but refrained from otherwise addressing the inspector's rather disrespectful comment.

Javert continued. "I suppose you think that makes you some sort of hero—that I am in your debt."

"I watched a _child_ fall from a _cliff_! What was I supposed to do? Let you drown?!"

"YES!"

Valjean was struck dumb.

Javert sighed. "I did not fall from that cliff," he said quietly.

The ex-convict shook his head. "What are you talking about? _Of course_ you fell! I saw you—"

"I _did not_ fall," Javert interrupted, "because _falling_ would imply that it was involuntary—that I stumbled or was pushed. I did not _fall_. I jumped." He added softly, "I had forgotten that…until today."

Valjean looked stricken, his expression the very picture of agony. "_WHY?_"

"Why do you _think?_ Why does _anyone_ jump?" He folded his hands in his lap. "The rumors concerning my relations with Fantine might not have been true, but the others are." He scowled. "Oh, don't look at me like that! I know you've heard them—probably heard them circulating at the prison before anyone in this town even knew I existed." He looked back down. "I did not _want_ to be alive when I came back up out of that water. I don't remember much about what happened—only that I woke up in the cell where my mother had once stayed. They told me a convict had pulled me out." He shook his head. "I never saw his face, never knew his name…but I cursed that man, whoever he might be, for taking away my one chance at happiness."

They were quiet for a moment. Valjean was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry."

Javert barked a short half-laugh. "For my reason for jumping? Don't be. I can hardly stand your attempts at civility as it is. I don't want your pity. For saving me? Well…" he smiled sourly, "I suppose it's a bit late for that now…."

"If I had wanted you dead," he said gravely, "I wouldn't have stepped out in front of a gun." He gave a half-hearted smile. "Unlike _some_, I don't have a death wish."

The inspector smirked. "Sarcasm does not suit you, monsieur. You ought to leave it to the professionals."

Valjean smiled.

Javert stood to leave, pausing when he reached the door. "When Cosette wakes…please tell her I asked after her."

"I will."

"And Valjean?" He turned to look back over his shoulder. "What was said here tonight must never leave this room."

The mayor nodded. "Of course. Goodnight, Javert."

Javert replaced his hat. "Goodnight, Monsieur le Maire."


	10. No Future for a Fortuneteller's Son-Pt 1

**Author's Note: Sorry this took so long you guys! I kind of had a mild case of writer's block and then this chapter ended up being a little longer than I planned, so I decided to split it up into two parts. Not sure exactly when Part 2 will be up, but for now, I hope you enjoy Part 1. :)**

**Also, I got a lot of questions last chapter about the historical accuracy and the "canon-ness" of some of the details. I don't want to address all of them here, but if any part of the last chapter confused you, you can message me, and I'll be happy to explain my reasoning. But to be safe, I guess I should issue a disclaimer here that, while I generally try to be historically accurate and this fic is based mainly off the book, I will occasionally be taking advantage of my creative license as an author in my interpretation of characters and certain events.**

**Chapter Ten: There is no Future for a Fortuneteller's Son**

**~Part 1~**

It was a cool day in late autumn when the gypsy caravan rolled into town. The regal oaks and maples, once cloaked in robes of red and gold, now bared their bones to the gray November sky, a thin layer of frost giving the limbs a ghostly silver gleam.

Javert stood in the shadows, hands shoved down in the pockets of his greatcoat. With his collar flipped up and his hat pulled down low over his eyes, his face was hardly visible. He stood so still that one might have mistaken him for a statue, the occasional steamy puff of warm breath the only sign that he was not yet frozen solid from the cold. He observed the passing crowd with the eyes of an accomplished hunter, a disgusted sneer curling the corner of his mouth.

"You know, I didn't expect to see _you_ here, Javert."

The inspector's eyes flickered to the mayor. "Why?" he spat. "Because you thought it would bother me to be reminded of my past?" He barked a short laugh. "I am reminded on a daily basis, monsieur." He gave the former prisoner a meaningful look. "Not _all_ of us are capable of running away from what we are."

If he was being entirely honest, the situation _did_ make him rather uncomfortable, for while it was true that he was never allowed to forget his Roma origins, being surrounded by _them_ made him more self-conscious. Ordinarily, he stood out in a crowd, the only dark face in a white man's society; he was an oddity, but eventually the novelty wore off, the uniform's authority taking precedence over the color of his skin. But now, there was a distinct dividing line between _us_ and _them_—the established locals and the traveling vagabonds, the blessed church-goers and the ungodly heathens, the Frenchmen and the gypsies—and while he might have been included when someone spoke of "_us_," it did not go unnoticed that he looked suspiciously like one of _them_. They were the _other_, the unholy, the unworthy and unclean. A white man had no place among them, save for perhaps to enjoy a bit of amusement—cheap magic tricks and slight-of-hand, cards that told a future no one really believed, a dancer's bare skin that made men burn with desire though they'd never touch a woman of her class. Javert did not want to be associated with _any_ of that, but when he was standing beside men who could have passed for his brothers, it was hard to deny the similarities.

And the racism worked both ways. A gypsy man was much more likely to obey the orders of the police if the officer in question was white. Javert they regarded as a traitor of sorts—a Roma who thought himself too good to be associated with a heritage in which they took pride. Physically, he might be one of them, but his mannerisms and his clothing were those of a _gadje_. And even if he had not been wearing a cravat and carrying a cane, his eyes gave him away. In their minds, he was not Roma enough to be considered one of their own…and yet he was not white enough to be considered truly French.

"Besides," he added after a long pause, "_someone_ must keep them in line."

"They are just people trying to make an honest living, Javert. I may not agree with their methods, but…."

"Ha!" Javert cut him off. "A _living,_ perhaps! But _honest?_" He snorted. "I doubt it."

The mayor frowned. "They seem harmless enough to me."

"Then you don't know very much about gypsies."

Seeing that he was getting nowhere with the conversation, Valjean decided to change the subject. He gestured to the spot beside Javert. "May I join you?"

Javert shrugged. "If you've nothing better to do."

Valjean crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. For a moment, neither man spoke.

"I suppose," Javert said suddenly, "that you think I'm a bit of a hypocrite to say that all gypsies are lying, thieving pickpockets who drabble in witchcraft."

Valjean shrugged. "I could not say. I have not really met enough of them to know." He frowned. "But it would seem to me that as one who has endured misjudgment on the basis of your background, you should not be so quick to accuse an entire race of malicious intent."

"I am _not_ like them."

"Precisely. So how do you know that there are not others out there like you? Other exceptions to the rule?"

There it was again—that niggling doubt, that hesitation, that made him pause and question the foundation of his tidy little black-and-white world. That Valjean was an exception to law's definition of a criminal had been a bitter pill to swallow. That he himself might also be such an exception—an _honest_ gypsy, a law-abiding citizen born outside of the law—had never really occurred to him on such a profound level. If there were at least _two_ exceptions to the rules—one standing right before him, the other within his very soul—perhaps they were more common than he'd once believed. Perhaps the world was not easily definable with people categorized as either _good _or _evil_ but irredeemably and hopelessly messy with a thousand shades of gray that all somehow blurred together. Perhaps the laws _were_ wrong…. Or perhaps—and this thought seemed to trouble him even more—he had been correct in his original assumptions that there _were _no exceptions. Not even Valjean. Not even himself.

His mind was reeling. He could not go there again, could not fall prey to the overwhelming uncertainty that threatened to rend the fabric of his sanity. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. "You do not know them. They are a corrupt, traitorous lot, and they are not to be trusted."

Valjean frowned. "Perhaps…but I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt."

Javert scoffed. "I don't know what happened to you since…." He caught himself before he could give anything away, remembering that they were in a public place. "…since our previous work together…but _something_ certainly did!" He looked at the mayor accusingly. "You really _do_ believe all that nonsense about God and forgiveness, don't you?" He shook his head. "And I thought it was all part of the act…."

"Are you suggesting that people can change?"

Javert frowned. "I am _suggesting_, Monsieur le Maire, that your illusions concerning the inherent goodness of humanity and the possibility of a benevolent Higher Being are exactly the sort of thing which result in unlawful chaos and allowing criminals to go free."

Valjean raised an eyebrow, and the inspector sighed irritably.

"That's different. You know what I mean."

"Is it? It does not seem so very different to me."

If Javert hadn't known better, he would have said the mayor was _asking_ to be arrested…or perhaps he simply wanted to challenge his way of thinking, to force the inspector to consider the fallibility of his own argument. He wouldn't put it past Valjean to attempt such a thing. But he was not interested in playing the game.

"Look, the point is that it is easy to be kind. It is much more difficult to be just…." _Perhaps more difficult than I imagined_, he added to himself.

Valjean cocked his head. "I'm afraid I disagree." He clapped a hand on the inspector's shoulder. "Which is easier, Javert—to be justly angry at another man or to look him in the eye and say the words, 'I forgive you'?"

Javert looked away. It had been phrased as an innocent rhetorical question, but he did not miss the mayor's deeper meaning. It was both an absolution and a confession, and Javert wanted neither—the first because he felt as though he'd committed no wrong that warranted the man's forgiveness; the second because Valjean's guilt was now essentially his own, and only the law held the power to forgive what had been done.

Valjean smiled gently, disheartened but unsurprised by the inspector's response. He removed his hand from Javert's shoulder. "It's just something to think about."

As the mayor slipped back into the crowd, Javert watched him leave, feeling strangely as though he should have said something more. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it was.

xxxx

Cosette sat bundled up beneath one of the trees in the schoolyard, quietly conversing with a much smaller girl whose attire—while beautiful—did not look quite appropriate for the chill in the air. Cosette leaned in, whispering something in her companion's ear and laughing at her response, though the girl's blank stare betrayed no hint of emotion. In fact, upon closer inspection, one discovered that the girl was not a girl at all but rather a large porcelain doll—the very one Cosette's father had given her as a token of his affection on the day she had left the Thénardier's inn. She was a beautiful doll with auburn curls peeking out from behind a lace-trimmed, teal-colored bonnet and big blue eyes that almost seemed real, and while Cosette had made many new friends at the school, Catherine retained a very special place within her heart. She had been Cosette's first friend—albeit an imaginary one—and in some ways, she was still the closest thing the girl had to a sister.

Cosette was still laughing when a rustle in the bushes took her by surprise. She looked up, frowning. At first, she thought it might have been a rabbit, the step seemingly too light and swift to be a human. But then she heard it again, this time much closer. She glanced over her shoulder at the other students, all preoccupied with their own games, and cautiously stood up.

"H-hello?" She caught a snatch of movement behind the tree. "Who's there?"

She peered around the trunk, letting out a startled gasp when she came face to face with a dark-eyed, olive-skinned girl dressed in rags. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, each curiously taking in the other's appearance. The gypsy girl wore a tattered black vest over a thin shirt that might have once passed for being white, now yellowed with age and the filth of the streets. Her skirt, torn and threadbare at the hem, was of a red floral print on a dark background—though whether it had originally been navy blue or black was difficult to say. She wore no shoes and no overcoat, nor made any attempt to tame the mane of black curls that fell past her shoulders. In her hand, she held a poorly constructed doll made from strips of multicolored cloth. They were as different as night and day…and yet Cosette could not help the feeling that she was staring into a mirror, looking at a portrait of the neglected and starving child that she'd once been.

Suddenly, the girl seemed to come to her senses, backing away as if she hoped to disappear back into the hedge. In her haste, she dropped the doll.

"Wait!" Cosette called after her. "It's alright," she said softly. "I…I won't hurt you."

Slowly, Cosette, knelt to pick up the discarded toy, the girl warily watching her every move as if she feared that the strange white child would suddenly sprout fangs and strike out like a snake.

"Here…." Cosette extended her arm, offering the cloth doll to its owner. "You dropped this…."

The girl quickly snatched the doll from her hand, hugging it protectively against her chest while regarding Cosette with an uneasy, inquisitive stare.

"I have a doll, too, see?"

Cosette reached around the base of the tree where Catherine lay propped up against the trunk and pulled out the beloved toy by the arm. She gently held her out for the other girl to see and smiled. Though she wasn't sure if the girl understood French, she attempted a conversation anyway.

"Her name is Catherine. And I'm Cosette. You can play with us, if you like. Catherine's really nice."

The gypsy girl was entranced. Having spent a good deal of her own childhood being terribly poor, Cosette, too, had marveled the first time she'd seen the doll staring back at her from the shop window that Christmas night that felt so long ago, so she understood the other girl's fascination. A dark hand tentatively reached out, wanting to touch the smooth white porcelain but afraid to soil the doll's perfect hair and skin. Cosette obligingly handed the toy over.

"You can hold her. Just be careful. I don't want her to break."

Gingerly, the girl accepted, carefully turning the doll over to inspect every stitch of velvety cloth and every inch of pale skin. She ran her fingers over a coil of russet hair, wondering at how silky it felt between her index finger and thumb. When she had finished examining the doll, she looked up, smiling.

Cosette returned the smile with one of her own. "I _told_ you she was nice."

Just then, a bell began to toll, and Cosette looked up to see her fellow classmates aligning in single file, preparing to go back inside. She looked apologetically at her new friend.

"I have to go."

Reluctantly, the girl offered up the porcelain doll. Cosette started to accept but hesitated when she looked back at her new friend's makeshift doll of rags lying on the ground. She didn't miss the look of longing in the girl's black eyes. Catherine had been a friend to her when she had felt alone, but now she had _real_ friends—her papa, her uncle, and all the girls at school…. Perhaps, Cosette thought to herself, it was time to let Catherine help someone else. She gently pushed the girl's hands away, shaking her head and smiling sadly.

"You keep her. I don't need her anymore."

xxxx

Javert kept his head up as he walked, refusing to let the shame he felt show on the outside, glaring down the bridge of his nose at the bohemians as though they were beneath him. Most of those who'd dared to give him a disrespectful look quickly averted their gaze when he glanced in their direction, but a few were still curious enough to let their eyes linger on his face. Javert ignored them and reminded himself, with bitter satisfaction, that anyone who acted against him was acting against the law—one wrong move, and he could arrest them for assaulting an officer. He had kept an eye on the gypsies all morning, and while he did had not witnessed any illegal behavior, he knew better than to let his guard down. He'd gone home for a few hours near the middle of the day to get some rest between shifts, but he hadn't been able to sleep. Having the gypsies so near made him nervous, and he was relieved to know that they'd be forced to leave by the end of the week. With nothing better to do, he'd decided to start his evening shift a bit early, taking a walk through town to make sure that nothing had gotten out of hand. He wasn't officially on duty yet, but he had dressed in uniform to distinguish himself from the lower class to which most of his race belonged, and though they might have resented him for it, Javert had long stopped caring about the opinions of those beneath his rank.

He had not been out for long when a familiar sight caught his eye—a girl carrying a doll…a doll that looked eerily similar to the one Cosette had been taking tea with on the day Valjean had been injured…. But the girl carrying the doll was not Cosette. And such an expensive doll was something a gypsy girl could never afford. In an instant, Javert was upon her, grabbing her roughly by the arm.

"You little _thief!_" He snatched the doll out of her hands. "Where did you get this?!"

Terrified and confused, the girl shook her head vehemently. "Not steal!" she said in heavily accented French. "Gift," she explained.

Javert frowned, clearly not believing the story. "Gift from whom?"

The girl looked helpless. What little she had understood of the rather one-sided conversation with Cosette all seemed to blur together. She thought she remembered the girl giving her a name…but had that been _her _name or the doll's? This man looked like one of her own people. Why did he not believe her? Why would he not speak their language—a language she could understand? She started to cry.

"Lies!"

"No, no, monsieur! Please!"

Javert was unmoved. "Do you know what _happens _to people who steal?"

"Wait!"

Javert looked up to see Cosette sprinting across the road, practically dragging Valjean behind her. The inspector cursed under his breath. While the mayor's sudden appearance would make it more convenient to return the doll to Cosette (and really, he had no idea _how_ he would've explained the need to carry a doll across town!), if Valjean had his way, the girl would go unpunished and justice would be obstructed yet again. He forced himself to appear agreeable.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Cosette—just the person I wanted to see. I believe _this_," he indicated the doll, "belongs to you. This girl was caught stealing it."

"But she wasn't stealing, Uncle! She was telling the truth. I _gave_ it to her. Please don't arrest her…."

Javert pursed his lips. While he didn't like to doubt Cosette, he wouldn't put it past her to lie to save someone else given her father's martyr-like tendencies.

"Cosette, if you are lying to protect her…."

"I'm not making it up!" she insisted. "Ask Catherine. She'll tell you."

Javert rolled his eyes, the very idea of questioning a _doll_ as a witness so preposterous that he nearly laughed. Instead, he tactfully ignored Cosette's well-meaning suggestion and addressed her with another question.

"I thought you were quite fond of…" he hesitated to use the doll's name, "of…Catherine."

"Well, yes, but...I think Catherine is ready for a new home." She looked first at the girl, then up at Javert. "I'll be okay without her."

"Hmm…." Javert regarded her skeptically. He sighed. With no actual proof that the girl had taken the doll and without Cosette pressing charges, there was very little he could do. Perhaps Cosette was telling the truth. Perhaps not. Javert supposed he would never really know. He released the gypsy girl's arm and jerked his head in the direction of the caravan. "You may go."

The girl glanced briefly at Cosette, as if to thank her, before she took off running in the other direction.

"_What is the meaning of this?!_"

A voice from behind made Javert turn around. It was a young gypsy man—most likely the girl's father judging from how defensive he was.

"You think that just because you wear a badge that you are better than us? That because we are poor and unashamed of our culture that we are automatically thieves?!" He stepped forward, daring Javert to ignore him. "You may think you're a _gadjo_, but you are not. And you are more of a crook than any of our people will ever be."

"Peace, Andrzej!" An older gypsy woman—perhaps one of the tribal healers—laid her hand on the young man's shoulder, shifting the pitcher she had been carrying to her right arm. "What is all the fuss about, hmm?" She looked up. "I am sorry, monsieur, he—"

The clay jar fell from her grasp, shattering on the ground as her hand flew to cover her mouth. Slowly, trembling, she let the hand fall until it came to rest over her heart, her dark eyes brimming with tears.

"Reule?" she whispered.

Javert's eyes widened. He took a step back. "You…."

"You know him?" the man called Andrzej asked.

"Yes," the woman whispered. "Yes…. He is my son."

**A/N: Wow, way to drop a bombshell on you, huh? XD Don't worry, you'll find out more soon. By the way, just a fun fact-The name 'Andrzej' is an actual Roma name that means "war-like." 'Reule' is a French name that means "famous wolf." :)**


	11. No Future for a Fortuneteller's Son-Pt 2

**Chapter Eleven: There is no Future for a Fortuneteller's Son**

**~Part 2~**

Javert stared at the woman before him, a mixture of hatred, longing, and unbidden, irrepressible pain gripping his heart so violently that for a moment, he feared he was experiencing an attack of some sort. He drew a sharp intake of breath, clutching the fabric at his chest as though he was trying to compress the bleeding of a stab wound. But he quickly recovered himself, narrowed silver eyes guardedly appraising the gypsy woman as if he expected her to either strike out or flee.

He could easily walk away from this—turn his back, pretend he'd never seen her or had no idea who she was. He was an officer of the law now—a man, not a boy. He was under no obligation to speak to her, and yet…. There was a part of him that had hoped to never see the woman again, but another part had ached for the affection that had been so cruelly snatched away. He had so many questions that only _she_ could answer—_Why did you leave me? Did you ever regret it? Did it keep you up at night wondering what had become of me as I wondered what had become of _you_? Did you cry yourself to sleep as I did? Did you know how much your betrayal hurt? Did I ever mean anything to you at all, or was I just another unwanted consequence of one night's pleasure with a man you never loved? _But none of those were things that he would dare to speak aloud.

"What are you doing here?" he asked harshly, his voice almost a whisper.

He glanced up, suddenly aware that Valjean, Cosette, and the man called Andrzej were still watching. A few of the more curious gypsies had paused to watch as well. If he wasn't careful, he would draw a crowd…and that was the _last_ thing he wanted! He looked first to the gypsy, then to Valjean.

"If you would excuse us," his voice remained low to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention, "I should like to speak with the woman alone."

Valjean nodded courteously, taking a step back to show that he would allow the inspector his space. Andrzej eyed him distrustfully, his gaze flickering briefly to the older woman as if to ask her opinion on the matter. When she returned the glance with a nod of her own, he reluctantly stood down.

Briefly, Cosette caught Javert's eye, her gaze questioning but not impolite. She could not understand a mother who did not love her child…but she _could_ understand having a mother who left her child behind. Had she been offered the chance to see Fantine once more, Javert had no doubt that she would have given _anything_ to take it. She gave him an uncertain but encouraging smile as she took her father's hand. Javert looked away.

xxxx

Silence reigned as the inspector and the fortune teller made their way through the crowd, the gypsies parting like the Red Sea as their elder led the lawman to a small, canvas-covered wagon near the fringes of the camp. Those who had overhead their conversation regarded Javert with judgment in their eyes; those who had not looked on him with the fear of a rabbit who has been cornered by a wolf. But Javert paid no attention to their stares, his eyes riveted on the woman who had given him life—but nothing more.

She was just as he'd remembered. A little older, perhaps, with a few more lines around the eyes and her sable curls now faded to a steel gray—but the years had been kind to her, aging her gently, so that she was still as dignified and beautiful as the day she'd left. Warm brown eyes the color of black coffee peeked out from behind dark lashes partially obscured by a waterfall of loose curls bound only by the red kerchief tied around her head. There was a kindness in those eyes that he had not seen in ages, remembered only in flashes of a smile exposing milk-white teeth and the brush of a mother's lips against a child's fevered brow. The betrayal had cut deep, and he had vowed from that day forward never to trust or love another again. It was difficult to see her now as both the mother she had been and the traitor that she was, to restrain the urge to simultaneously embrace the one and strangle the other. He knew that he could not allow himself to be affected by her, could not afford to endure such gut-wrenching pain again. He did not want to acknowledge the feelings that such memories stirred, old wounds he'd thought long healed suddenly reopened, as fresh and tender as the day they had been inflicted, walls he'd thought impregnable crumbling into dust. He reminded himself that he was an officer of the law, and she was a common prostitute. He was at least half French, and she was a gypsy. He was an upstanding citizen, and she was gutter scum. Legally, morally, and socially, he was her superior. He was a grown man, and her actions _shouldn't_ have mattered to him, shouldn't have still held sway over his emotions…but they did.

Javert had to duck as he stepped inside the wagon, his tall frame making it near impossible for him to stand fully upright under the sloping canvas dome. The entire setup was rather cramped, the majority of the room taken up by a bed in the back. The empty space between the bedframe and the floor had been tightly packed with what meager possessions she owned, a few bags spilling their contents shoved unceremoniously beneath the bed. The remainder of the room included a small bench attached to either side and a short table that seemed to fold out from the foot of the bed cluttered with cards and diagrams for palm reading. In the center of the table, a glass-like sphere sat on a swath of black velvet cloth. Javert snorted, his disdain for the divining materials evident as he took a seat on one of the benches and let the canvas flap fall closed behind him. He would have preferred to stand, but he had no idea how long their conversation might be, and he did not wish to spend the entirety of it uncomfortably hunched over with his shoulders pressed up against the roof.

For what seemed like an eternity, the silence stretched between them, an invisible barrier of tension that neither knew how to breach. At long last, his mother spoke—not in the language of his father's people but in a tongue he remembered only from the snatches of a lullaby and the whispers of the sea.

"You have grown."

She smiled softly at the observation. It was a poor attempt at conversation, but what else could she say to a son she had not seen since he was a boy?

Javert gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Well, it does happen. It's been, what—thirty-five years?" He sneered. "But who's counting?"

He slipped back into the language of his youth with surprising ease, disgusted with himself for the realization that he had, perhaps, not quite let go of the past as much as he liked to believe. But speaking French now would be dangerous. The gypsies would understand him no matter what language he used, but if any of the townspeople happened to be passing by, at least in this language, his secrets were safe from them.

She reached for his hand. "Reule…."

"DON'T USE THAT NAME!" He jerked back from her touch, as if he had been burned, silver eyes smoldering with hate. "And don't you _dare_ call me your son! You lost that privilege a long time ago…. As far as I'm concerned, my mother is _dead!_"

The gypsy woman flinched, staring down at the hands folded in her lap. "You are right. You did not deserve to be left alone…." She looked up. "But I _swear _to you that everything I did, I did out of love."

"Ha! Love for whom? Yourself? Your so-called husband? Because it _certainly_ wasn't out of love for me!" He leaned forward over the little table, wanting to see the pain in her eyes, wanting her to _feel_ everything that he had felt the morning he had risen and found her gone. "You promised me a better life. You promised me a _future!_ You said that when your sentence was up, we'd be free, and I _believed _you!"

She was tearing up, but if she hoped her tears would produce sympathy, she was sadly mistaken. She would have had better luck trying to wring blood from a stone.

"You _left me_ in that hellhole of a prison, _abandoned_ me like some unwanted pup! And now you expect me to believe that it was all out of _love?!_"

He took a moment to steady himself, afraid to feel the mask of anger slipping, afraid to hear the note of desperation that had somehow worked its way into his voice.

"Some nights I slept in the streets. Some nights I slept in the hulls of the ships docked in the harbor. Some nights I slept in _barn _with the _horses_ to keep from freezing to death! At least the prisoners had a roof over their heads in the cells…."

He paused, unwilling or unable to say more, the faltering measure of his heavy breathing the only sound in the stifling silence of cramped little room.

The woman brushed away a tear before it had the chance to spill down her cheek. "Do you know," she paused to wipe away another, "why your father was sent to the galleys? Why I was arrested?"

"My father was a liar and a thief. You were his accomplice and attacked an officer upon your supposed husband's arrest." He crossed his arms. "Or so that's what they tell me. You know as well as I that it's at least partially a lie. That manwas no more your _husband_ than he was the king of France! You probably slept with half the prisoners in Toulon. I doubt if you even know which one my father _was!_"

She glanced down again. "It is true that I was not legally his wife. No church would marry a Frenchman and a Rom." She raised her eyes to meet his, the same color somewhere between gray and blue that his father's had been, the same eyes of a child that had once gazed upon her with unconditional love and adoration. And it hurt to see them staring back with such animosity. "But in my heart, he was my husband."

"Then you betrayed him as you betrayed me. Though I suppose he never learned of your treachery."

He vaguely remembered receiving the news in the form of a flower, a single pressed poppy crushed in the palm of his mother's hand. They had never discussed it, but he understood. He had not cried, for how can one mourn the loss of something that was never his to begin with?

"No," she whispered softly. "No, I am glad he never saw me like that." She grew quiet for a moment. "It was for you, you know. It was all for you…." She sighed. "We were starving, and I was with child. Your father did what he thought he had to so that you would be born healthy and strong. When he was caught, I fought back with the intention of being arrested…because at least in prison, I would have something to eat…and my baby would not die…."

Javert remained guarded, indifferent. "And I suppose you have an equally implausible excuse for the reason behind your…promiscuous activities?" He scoffed. "I wonder how you even got away with it, seeing as the guards…." He stopped, a sudden horrifying, sickening realization presenting itself in his mind. "The guards…. You…." He laughed—a terrible, broken sound reminiscent of the mad laughter of those poor souls sent away to the asylum. "_Oh!_ I am a _FOOL!_" He shook his head. "To think I actually believed I'd _earned_ my position among them! I never earned _anything_ but a reputation as the gypsy whore's son!" It took all the strength he had to remain seated, to restrain himself from releasing the black violence of his anger. "It was all a great joke to you, wasn't it? And _I _was the punch line. I always knew you were selfish, but—"

A resounding smack and the stinging of his cheek brought his rant abruptly to an end. He lifted a hand to touch his face. She'd slapped him—_hard_. Realistically, he _could_ have arrested her for such an offense, but as it was, he was nearly too shocked to respond.

"_You listen to me_," she hissed. "You may be an officer, but I am still your mother!"

There was a fire in her eyes like nothing he had never seen before, a tempest raging behind the long-held outward calm that reminded him too much of himself.

"You may say that I was wrong. You may call me a whore. But don't you _ever_ try to tell me that what I did was selfish!" She was trembling with anger, panting from exertion. "There was no future for you with me. So I gave you one the only way I knew how."

"Did your cards tell you that?" he sneered.

"They didn't _have_ to! You could never have earned your way into their society, no matter how good you were! You _know_ that!" There were still tears in her eyes, but they were tears of rage more so than grief. "I was young and foolish and in love when I met your father. My own family disowned me for having relations with a _gadje_. When your father died, I had no one. We would have been alone in the world, and what sort of life could I have given you? There, you had the chance to really _be_ someone, to become more than your father and I ever could have been…and looking at you now, I know I made the right decision." Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes, ignoring the wet tracks that streaked her cheeks. "Leaving you was the hardest thing that I have ever done. I do not regret it…but I do regret that it hurt you so much." She opened her eyes again, red-rimmed though they were. "I will not ask for your forgiveness because I know you would not give it. You have a right to hate me, and I will not begrudge you that." She laid a hand gently on his arm. "But no matter what you may think of me, you must know that I am proud of you…and that I have always—_always_—loved you."

Javert stood slowly, without a word, and turned to leave. He paused at the doorway, one hand poised on the canvas flap, immensely grateful that she could not see the inner turmoil of his thoughts. To be unbreakable, untouchable, the perfect picture of impassivity; to be above emotion, beyond reproach; to bleed and yet feel nothing; to not even bleed at all—such were his goals, to be sure…but to say that they were true would have been less than accurate. And so once again he took up the mask, the self-righteous authority he hid behind so well.

"I want you all out of here by tomorrow," he said quietly. "Your kind is not welcome here. You may leave with them," his voice was steady but strained, "or you can go back and rot in that cell where you belong."

Stepping out of the wagon, he heard a strangled sob come from within, and the tightness in his chest suddenly became unbearable. Pausing on the threshold, he closed his eyes, the words the child had never had the chance to speak now barely a whisper on the lips of the man.

"_Achen devlesa, Daj_."

_Goodbye, Mother._

**A/N: I hope you guys liked this chapter. I had a lot of fun researching Roma culture for this, and I hope it paid off. While I realize the cards and crystal ball are a bit cliche, as Hugo stated that Javert's mom was a fortuneteller, I thought it would be acceptable. Fortunetelling WAS actually a common practice among the Roma of this time-a nice way for the women to earn legitimate money without compromising their morals. It was't _technically_ legal, but most officers ignored the rule. I know Javert probably would have done something about it, but...I needed him to not arrest her immediately so they could chat. (Poetic license, people!) The traditional wooden wagon that most people associate with Roma culture didn't actually come into popular use in France until at least 1850; before that, it was mostly small tents and a few canvas wagons for those who could afford something a bit nicer. While still something of a patriarchal society, Roma women often held important positions as healers, etc., so I figured Javert's mother might hold a fairly high degree of power among the people, so I could get away with giving her a wagon instead of just a tent. One other thing-I realize that the term "gypsy" is offensive to some, but ultimately in this period, it is what the Roma people would have been called. I hope that I have not offended anyone and have given a positive and at least somewhat accurate portryal of what life might have been like for a woman like Javert's mother at the time.**


	12. Winter's Chill

**Author's Note: I'm sorry it took so long to get this up. Long story short, I got snowed in and I only have internet on my phone at the house right now... Plus, Javert DID NOT want to cooperate with me on this one. I think maybe he's still mad at me for what I put him through last chapter. :P It's still not quite perfect, but believe me when I tell you that it's A LOT better than what I had before. Also, this will probably the last update you get for several weeks, as I will be going home for Christmas soon and catching up with some family members and friends who I haven't seen in a while. I'll try to have something up in about a month, but I wouldn't expect too much before then. In the meantime, Merry Christmas from me, Valjean, Cosette, and yes, even Mr. Scroogey-pants Javert. XD Enjoy!**

**Chapter Twelve: Winter's Chill**

It had been a little over a month since the gypsies had departed, their wagons fading into the night like ghosts until they completely disappeared. Javert had watched them from a distance, outwardly impassive but privately relieved that he would not be forced to carry out his threat and—though he would never admit it—a little disappointed. Somewhere in his heart of hearts, he had harbored a secret hope that she would fight back—refuse to leave the estranged son she claimed to love, refuse to turn her back on him again—if only to prove to him that her words were true. It would have hurt less to arrest her than to watch her walk away a second time. But she had not. She had not argued with him, had not come running after him to apologize. She had not cursed him for his insolence or begged him for his mercy. She had not even tried to reason with him that they might at least have had a proper goodbye. He would not have listened to her pleas regardless, he knew, but it would have been nice to know that she thought he was something worth fighting for. But whether it was pride or pain, something had prevented her from stepping forward, and in Javert's mind, that was enough of an answer in and of itself. And so, with great difficulty, he had forced himself to watch her go, enduring the agony in hopes that it would somehow cauterize the old wound that had reopened, though in the end, it did little more than damage that which had already been burned.

Mercifully, the town, it seemed, was unaware of what had come to pass. Valjean had attempted to approach the subject once, casually offering that if the inspector wished to talk, he was more than willing to listen. Javert, of course, had curtly assured him that there was nothing to talk about, and that had been the end of things.

Cosette had been rather curious at first, but Valjean had apparently instructed her not to say anything…or perhaps she simply understood his pain too well, for though Javert noticed the sadness in her eyes, she never questioned him. For days after the confrontation, he'd spent the majority of his free time at the stables. On the day of their lesson, Cosette had found him in a rather subdued mood, grooming Magnifique almost a full thirty minutes before their meeting time. He barely even acknowledged her presence, a cursory glance in her direction the only sign that he had noticed her at all. In truth, he had nearly forgotten about the lesson, his mind far too preoccupied with other matters. And Cosette, despite her innocence and her inquisitive nature, had seen enough of the world to know that there are times when grief runs too deep for words. In silence, she'd picked up a brush and joined him in his task. They had not spoken the entire half-hour. When at last he had informed her that it was time for them to leave, she had surprised him with a hug—though she was only tall enough to reach his knees—and Javert had quietly permitted it. How could he have done otherwise when the child's arms were only thing holding him together?

xxxx

Cosette removed her outer coat, shaking the snow from the folds before hanging it on the lowest prong of the coatrack. Winter had never been her favorite season. For other children, it meant snowball fights and Christmas gifts; spending time with loved ones and sitting by the fire; good food, good music, and the company of friends. For her, it had meant chapped lips and frostbitten fingers, hands worked raw until they cracked and bled, sweeping snow from the sidewalk and breaking the ice that had formed overnight on the horse trough outside. It meant hoping you didn't get sick and making every effort to swallow the tickle in your throat or stifle the tingling in your nose when you inevitably did because it would mean a beating later. It meant running errands after dark, fetching water from the woods where the skeletal trees grabbed at your ragged skirts and the icy wind whipping through the branches screamed like a banshee in the night. Winter meant fear and illness and isolation. It meant darkness and hunger and death by the frost that crept into men's homes and into their souls. Even now, as her father knelt to light the fire, she couldn't help but remember the winters that had come and gone before…and she shivered from reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I hope the gypsies stay warm enough tonight," she said quietly, "…wherever they are now." She frowned. "It doesn't make sense, Papa…. Why would his mother leave without him when she just found him again? Doesn't she love him? I thought all mothers loved their children…."

Valjean sighed. Mothers were understandably a rather touchy subject with Cosette. Valjean had told her repeatedly that her own mother had sacrificed _everything_ for her, that she had left only out of necessity and with every intention to return, and she did not doubt his word. In her mind, Fantine was the purest of souls, an angel never meant for this world who was called home before she'd had the chance to kiss her daughter goodbye. Even Madame Thénardier, the heavy-handed giantess, more ogre than woman, had loved _her_ daughters, at least—for even the most fearsome of beasts does not destroy its own flesh and blood. That any mother might _voluntarily_ leave her child behind for no good reason was beyond her comprehension, an impossibility in her idealistic view of the world. And Valjean was loath to shatter the illusion.

"I don't know, Cosette," he admitted reluctantly. "Mothers and fathers _should_ love their children…but they are human, and sometimes they make mistakes. Sometimes they forget that children are a gift from God. Sometimes they are selfish…and sometimes they must do what is best for their child even if it _appears_ to be selfish at the time."

Indeed, Valjean was just as ignorant of the situation as Cosette, but he knew that realistically, even if Javert and his mother _had_ been on better terms, the gypsy woman's continued presence in the town would have ultimately caused the inspector more harm than good. Javert knew it, too, somewhere in the back of his mind—knew that there was a whisper of "I love you" hidden in her unspoken goodbye—but he could not hear it over the wailing of the child that he had once been.

"Like what Maman did for me?" Cosette asked quietly.

"Cosette, your mother was perhaps the most _un_selfish person that I have ever met, and she loved you more than anything in the world. Everything she did, she did to protect you—to give you the best life possible. I cannot say whether in Javert's case it is the same, but as we do not know all of the details, we shouldn't judge his mother too harshly. I know you're upset, but it is not our place to question her actions…or to question _him_, for that matter."

She sighed. "He won't say so, but I know he's sad…." She pursed her lips. "Why does he do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pretend like nothing's wrong."

Valjean frowned, the implications of the child's observation far more illuminating than perhaps she realized. In the years that he had known Javert, he had never once seen the man openly display weakness of any kind. He recalled one summer several years before when the gypsy boy he'd pulled from the water first appeared as a young man in uniform. He hadn't recognized him at the time, but looking back on it, he supposed he should have. Even then, still smooth-faced and barely in his twenties, he had been a force to be reckoned with, more tenacious in delivering justice and more devoted to his cause than any of the others. Once, he had been severely injured trying to break up a fight between two prisoners—one of whom had somehow procured a knife. The stab wound had been deep, and he'd lost a lot of blood, but the next day, he was back on his feet, his uniform spotless and his head held high, even if he'd looked a bit pale. Of course, being a guard, it was understandable that he had never shown any signs of suffering while the prisoners were around, but as the mayor, Valjean had been given the opportunity to observe the man from a very different perspective…and yet, while he was more respectful of his superiors and the law-abiding citizens of the town, he remained callous and aloof. He knew from experience that the ability to ignore physical pain required rather extensive acting skills, but it had never really occurred to him that the inspector's entire public character might have been an act as well. It was a sobering revelation—one that instilled more pity for the man than he'd ever thought he would be able to feel for someone he'd once hated.

Valjean, of course, understood better than most the implications of living a lie. Every day, from the moment he woke until the moment he kissed his daughter goodnight, he put on a show for the world. And every night, as he knelt by the bedside to say his evening prayers, he wept and begged God for forgiveness, the golden chain of office round his neck a constant reminder of another chain of iron that he'd once worn. It was a terribly lonely existence living with such a burden—or at least, it had been before Cosette. And yet, even she, in all her innocence, did not know the truth. He was lying to her, too, and for that, he hated himself more than anything. No one but God knew his true identity—well, God and, of course, Javert…though the latter had discovered his secret quite by accident. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Javert had proved to have quite a few secrets of his own. They were more alike than he supposed either one of them would ever willingly admit, and he had to wonder whether God might not have allowed their paths to cross for that very reason. Their stories were no longer isolated, their inner demons no longer confined to each man's mind alone. And though they were far from being friends, they were at least learning to understand one another.

He looked up from the fire, the flames now burning bright, and put his arm around Cosette who was warming her hands in the orange glow.

"Cosette…lying is never really a good thing, but sometimes, people must lie to protect the ones they love…or to protect themselves. Sometimes if people lie to themselves enough, they'll even start to believe it. Javert hopes that by lying about what he's feeling, he can make it go away…. But only God can do that."

"I wish there was some way we could help…." She frowned. For a moment, she seemed to be lost in thought, an idea slowly forming in her mind. She bit her lip. "Do you think..." She hesitated, unsure of whether to proceed. "Do you think that maybe we could invite him over for Christmas dinner?"

Valjean smiled, overwhelmed with pride for the mature young girl Cosette was turning out to be. "I _think_," he said ruffling her hair fondly, "that Javert is very fortunate to have such a good friend and that _I_ am blessed to have such a wonderful daughter."

xxxx

Javert hated the cold. He hated the snowflakes that stuck to his coat and the freezing rain that soaked through it. He hated the invisible ice that glazed the streets, the patches of black glass that made it difficult to patrol the city during the day and next to impossible at night. He hated not being able to ride as often, being forced to stay inside because of the weather, the chill of the wind that stung his face and cut through his clothes like a knife. He hated going back to a drafty apartment that he couldn't always afford to heat and burying himself beneath the blankets that were never warm enough. He hated everything about the cold. But more than anything, he hated it because of the memories that it stirred.

It has been said by some that cold is a great healer, and for physical wounds, he supposed it was true. The cold numbed all sensation, gradually turning a sharp pain into a dull ache by distracting the victim with a discomfort all its own until the cold was the only thing that you could feel and the suffering faded into a blissful haze of nothingness. Freezing to death was not horribly painful, or so he'd heard. In fact, it was rather peaceful—just like falling asleep. But that didn't make finding the bodies any easier. No matter how many times he'd told himself he didn't care about the beggars he saw huddled in the streets at night, he could never forget the vacant look in their eyes when he found them the next morning. Once, he'd come across a mother shielding her child from the cold, their bodies frozen together in a permanent embrace…and for a fleeting moment, he had wished to trade places with the child if only to know what it felt like to be held in such a way. It was an image that had never left his mind. But it was not this particular memory which haunted him the most.

Javert had grown up in the south where the warm Mediterranean breezes kept the winters comparatively mild and the summers almost unbearably hot. There _had_ been the occasional odd night when the temperature dipped below freezing—nights he'd spent curled up in the hay loft underneath a pile of unused blankets intended for the horses—but on the whole, such days had been rare. In a place where the sun always shone and a balmy breeze perpetually kissed the shore, it seemed only natural that the first cold, gray dawn of a rare winter's snow was the day the boy's heart had finally frozen solid, the day the black waters had swallowed him whole in his despair and killed the last bit of hope that he'd been clinging onto. He'd survived the ordeal, but something had died inside of him that day. He remembered waking in his mother's former cell, soaked to the bone and shaking in the sodden clothes that stuck fast to his skin. It was the coldest day any of the guards ever remembered with temperatures plummeting far below the norm, and by the next morning, he'd been ill. For nearly two weeks afterward, he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, his fevered dreams filled with the image of a mother who was always just out of reach and the hazy figure of the man who had condemned him to an empty, meaningless life, lurking like a phantom in the shadows of his mind. When he awoke, he remembered little of the dreams or of how he'd managed to fall into the sea. All he remembered was an endless night of helpless shivering and the terrible, biting cold.

Montreuil was the farthest north Javert had ever been stationed. The weather here was much different from Toulon, cool enough that it was usually well into the first few months of spring before he felt comfortable without the greatcoat. And while he didn't miss the sweltering summers of the _bagne_, he was still adjusting to winter. More than once he had singed the tails of his coat from practically sitting on top of the small stove in his office to keep warm, Perrot teasing him good-naturedly that fire department would not take kindly to the assignment of putting out the police inspector's flaming derrière. Others were a bit more vicious in their jokes, claiming that even the flames of hell could not thaw a heart as cold as his. But Javert took it all in stride. After everything he'd been through over the past year, it was good to know that he had not lost his reputation. The façade he had so carefully constructed was unquestionably cracked beyond repair, and it was exhausting to maintain, the cold settling deep into his bones, the darkness of the outside world an apt reflection of the turmoil that stirred within his soul. He told himself that it was the waning hours of daylight that had finally begun to make him feel his age, but as the week wore on, he began to wonder whether he ought to be concerned. He was _extremely_ tired—more so than he could ever remember being—and with Christmas only a day or two away, he could hardly afford to be less than alert while on duty. While most of the men would take the opportunity to have an extra day of rest, Javert never did. Criminals did not take holidays, he reasoned, so why should he? After all, he had no family to spend it with, and though he occasionally attended the midnight mass when time permitted, the religious significance of the day held little meaning for him.

He had gone to bed early that morning after returning from his night's work with a terrible headache and a slight cough. A few hours later, he had awoken, uncomfortably warm despite the fact that he had kicked off all the covers. His nightshirt was soaked with sweat, his throat as dry as sand. Groaning, he shakily got up to pour himself a glass of water, hands trembling so badly he could hardly raise the glass to his lips. When it was emptied, he laid back down and attempted to rest, the congestion shifting in his head with every toss and turn. By the time he finally started to doze off, the sun had already set. Any other man would have stayed in bed. Javert sneezed once, put on his uniform, and reported for work.

xxxx

Valjean stepped out into the dim light of the streetlamps, securing the door behind him. It was still fairly early, but the thick gray blanket of clouds that had settled over the town turned the sky black the moment the sun slipped beneath the horizon. Already the snow was beginning to fall, a fresh white layer like the down of angel's wings covering the dingy slush below that had become polluted with the soot and grime of the city, the sin of the world below. He smiled to himself at the thought.

Christmas was a time of forgiveness and love, a reminder of the peace that had come to earth in the form of a Babe, the peace that surpassed all human understanding—the peace that now dwelt in his heart. He had been lacking that peace for quite some time after Javert had first reappeared in his life, his inability to completely forgive the man and the underlying fear of being arrested having marred the joy that he'd once felt. But the perfect love of God, he now knew, cast out fear, and true forgiveness came only with the willingness to forgive others. His act of heroism had been one of instinct, but the repercussions had been far from what he'd expected. The bullet intended for Javert had nearly hit his heart, narrowly missing anything vital by what could only be called a miracle. The inspector himself had not been so lucky, for though he had escaped the physical damage, his own heart had become the target of an invisible double-edged sword wielded by One who never missed His mark; while Valjean had saved his body, God had been busy trying to save his soul through the little blonde-haired angel who loved them both. And slowly, ever so slowly, Valjean had begun to see a difference. The transformation was far from complete, but the process had been set in motion. It was a painful process, as he knew well from experience—one that would likely be even more difficult for an unwavering man like Javert than it was for him. It was a trial by fire, a refining furnace from which one either emerged purified or never emerged at all, consumed by the guilt of past sins, doomed to eventual self-destruction, and in the end, it was compassion for a fellow man undergoing this terrible struggle rather than the love for his daughter that had made it possible for him to finally let go of the past. And what better way to celebrate the holiday season than to sit at the table with his former enemy and share in the burden which he carried?

He only hoped that the man would accept. While their current alliance was tentative at best, Cosette seemed to have made it her personal goal to bring some happiness into the inspector's life. She called him "Uncle" with the same innocent affection that she referred to him as her "papa," seeing only the good in men the world despised for one reason or another, and if he were to refuse the request, Valjean wasn't sure that he could forgive his daughter's broken heart as easily as he could the scars upon his back. She had wanted to come with him to deliver the invitation, but thankfully, he'd been able to convince her to go to bed early so that Père Noël might come. Javert had a tendency to be blunt, and if the inspector decided to decline the offer—which was highly likely—he thought it would be better for him to break the news to her gently than for her to hear it directly from the man himself.

He found Javert sometime later when the inspector's route took him through the main part of town. For perhaps the first time in his life, he smiled when he saw him coming. He tipped his hat.

"Good evening, Inspector."

Javert did likewise. "Monsieur le Maire."

His voice was noticeably deeper and scratchy, as though it pained him to speak. Valjean frowned.

"Are you ill? You don't sound well."

Javert shrugged. "It is my duty to work this shift tonight."

The mayor's look of genuine concern surprised him. "Taking a day off wouldn't _kill_ you, you know…but working out in this weather in your current condition might. You should take better care of yourself, Javert."

Javert frowned. "And _you_ should learn to mind your own business. My 'condition,' indeed!"

He wrinkled his nose, anticipating a sneeze, but he quickly suppressed the urge. He sniffed, then breathed a sigh of relief. He shook his head.

"Why are you even out this time of night?" He gave the mayor a knowing look. "Most _respectable_ people are at home in their beds."

Valjean didn't miss the insinuation, but whereas before he would have heard only a growl of warning, he thought he now detected the barest hint of the policeman's dry humor. Was it possible that Javert was actually _joking_ with him? It was difficult to tell….

He smiled sheepishly, uncertain of how to respond to the inspector's blatant acknowledgement of his former crimes unaccompanied by the usual mistrust.

"Actually, I was looking for _you_…."

Javert smiled bitterly. "Oh, the _irony!_" he spat. "Monsieur, I do believe you've gotten our roles quite reversed. Or have you truly forgotten them so quickly?"

Valjean ignored the verbal jab and once again attempted civil conversation. Javert's harshness, he had learned, was a defense mechanism designed to keep anyone from getting too close, and to return the blow with one of his own would only further serve the inspector's purpose.

"Cosette would like—" He paused to correct himself. "That is, _we_ would like very much for you to join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow night."

For a moment, Javert's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then he laughed—a horrid wheezing sound punctuated by coughs that sounded frighteningly similar to Fantine's. "Never…." He coughed. "Never thought I'd…see the day…." When the coughing had subsided, he cleared his throat and shook his head again. He took a moment to catch his breath, then looked up. "The very idea is absurd." He frowned. "Besides, you know that I must work."

The inspector's nose had begun to itch, but he did his best to ignore the sensation.

The mayor frowned. "Come, Javert. I know we've had our differences, but Cosette is expecting you. Is that really the best excuse you have?" he challenged.

Javert attempted to laugh again, but it sounded more like a cough. "That, and I feel like hell," he admitted.

Valjean was unconvinced. "And yet you seem to think that you are well enough to work…."

"_Criminals_, Monsieur le Maire, will not stop their mischief simply because I am…am—"

Here, he was interrupted by a sneeze. He turned aside to blow his nose, then immediately caught the spray of a second wet sneeze in the handkerchief he'd pulled from his pocket. "Ugh…" He sniffed embarrassedly. "_Pardon_," he apologized.

The mayor regarded him thoughtfully.

"Javert," he said gently, "you _really_ should go home. You can't possibly be at your best right now."

Javert frowned. "And leave my post unattended?"

He stuffed the handkerchief back into the folds of his coat.

Valjean shrugged. "I'm sure they could find a replacement."

"At this hour? I doubt it." He crossed his arms. "It does not matter whether I am here or in bed, I will feel the same. Working at least gives me a distraction from it. I've no desire to wallow in self-pity, and I will not force my responsibilities on someone else simply to avoid a few hours of discomfort."

"It's not considered shirking your duty if you're too sick to perform the work properly," the mayor reminded him. "And how many others are going to fall ill because you were too stubborn to listen to what your own body is trying to tell you? _You need rest_. And until you get it, things are only going to get worse."

"I'm hardly ever in the office," Javert countered. "And quite frankly, I couldn't care less if someone I'm arresting happens to come down with a cold. Who are you concerned about?" he scoffed. "The prostitutes on the street corner?!"

Too late, he realized his mistake, and Valjean, stricken, dropped his gaze. For a moment, there was silence, the words hanging heavy in the air between them for what felt like an eternity. After several minutes, the inspector sighed irritably and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"My apologies. I did not mean—"

"I know."

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. Valjean was the first to break it.

"I meant what I said about the dinner," he began humbly. "It was Cosette's idea, but I _would_ like for you to attend…." He paused, his voice suddenly taking on the more authoritative tone of his official role as mayor. "_However, _for the time being, I'd like for you to return to the station and tell them you'll be taking the rest of the night off—and as many nights afterwards as it takes for you to recover. If you'll not speak to them, then _I _will. Tomorrow, I expect to either see you on my doorstep or hear that you are still at home in bed—not in the office and not out patrolling the streets, you understand?"

Javert opened and closed his mouth several times, his expression flickering between indignation and disbelief. On the one hand, he would be abandoning his duty if he left now, but on the other, he would be directly disobeying a superior—at least, in the eyes of the townspeople—if he did not. Furthermore, he seemed to have no choice about working his customary shift on Christmas Day—either he would spend the evening sharing the bread of a thief or he would remain at home when he should have been working. It hadn't exactly been given as an order, but the implication was there. And if the two of them were going to continue their charade, then Javert had to play along. Valjean had cleverly trapped him yet again. And there was no way out.

At long last, he grit his teeth. "Very well, _Monsieur le Maire,_" he sneered. "Have it your way. But don't abuse that title of yours or I might be inclined to take advantage of _mine_."

Valjean laughed softly in amusement. "You'll thank me later, Javert."

The inspector glared. "Somehow I very much doubt that."

The older man shook his head, still smiling. "Go on and get some rest." He paused. "And in case you _don't_ make it to dinner... Merry Christmas."

xxxx

The moment Javert arrived home, he collapsed into the bed, falling asleep almost instantly. When he finally returned to work after several days of much-needed bed rest, he found a package on his desk. Attached was a small slip of paper with the words, "Merry Christmas, Uncle! Get well soon," scrawled in a childish hand. Upon opening the box, he found a gray woolen scarf that had been lovingly—if not quite perfectly—crocheted. For a moment, he simply held it in his hands, rubbing the rough material between his thumb and index finger. Then, he carefully draped the scarf over his shoulders and wrapped it snugly around his neck. It was the first gift he had ever received—the gift of warmth from a friend who understood the cold.

**A/N: I know most of you probably wanted to see Javert come over for dinner, but I discussed the idea with him, and we ultimately decided that he wasn't quite ready to take that step yet. I just couldn't quite make it work right, and I felt like this approach worked better. I have also written a Les Mis Christmas story before, and I didn't want to copy that idea too much. Anyway, hope you liked it. Merry Christmas!**


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